


In Kamma Kory Ama

by dogtit



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Multi, an all over warning for gore body horror and brainwashing, ratings and warnings subject to change!!!, relationships will be tagged when they become appropriate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-15 21:44:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 23,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12329478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogtit/pseuds/dogtit
Summary: Witches don't die that easily.Foiled twice by the lord of Eichenwalde and his bevy of protectors, the Witch of the Wild decides to take matters into her own hands. It's not just Junkenstein who longs for his revenge now.--31 day prompt challenge!





	1. fall leaves

**Author's Note:**

> IM GONNA TRY AND LIMIT EACH CHAPTER TO AT LEAST/MOST 500 WORDS. LETS DO THIS.

 

The Witch watched as the first yellowed leaf of fall landed upon the porch of her cabin. As soon as the foliage touched the wood of her home, it was consumed by magical flame and the ashes blew away on the breeze; the Witch took in a deep breath of crisp, clear air and felt a smile blossom across her face. 

It was not a kind one. 

She had been waiting for the start of Autumn for months now. The winter had seemed endless, and she’d relied on actually eating her potion’s ingredients and frantically concocting a powerful charm to conceal herself from the Countess. The wards of her home would do, and the Summoner had spirited her off in such a way that left behind no trail for the Countess...but there was only so many newt’s eyes she could eat. 

Once the charm was finished, the Witch kept to the long hours of light given to her by spring to replant, renew, recover. She’d lost many herbs to keep herself alive, and to resurrect the fool Doctor, and doubtless she would need many more at that. So she took advantage, and she planted her roots, and she planned. 

The summers were most fortuitous; the Witch took her time now, collecting on what was owed to her by the peasants of the lord. She took lives, favors, the occasional soul--not that any would be of benefit to  _serve_  her, of course, but the Witch was not one to let resources go to waste, and what spells the souls didn’t empower the mortal shells they left behind came in quite handy. 

She had taken the Summoner’s words to heart; perhaps she need not rely on an overwhelming force at Hallow’s Eve to seek her vengeance. And was Junkenstein truly worth the wasted magic? Twice now, he had failed, and though his tattered soul still clawed and begged and howled in its madness, it was fast losing the luster of the damned that had called to her.  

She could bring him back a third time. A third, and final time. And, the Witch noted, she would do so, if only so that he would make her a fine army and a Monster worth it’s literal weight in corpses. 

But in the meanwhile, she could chip away at the lord’s power, his homes, and gather her strength. Fall, after all, was just beginning; her magic was beginning to grow in its strength once more. By the time it reached its zenith on Hallow’s Eve, and should all of the pieces fall into their proper order, the Witch would be unstoppable.  

She would let nothing stand in her way. She would take the castle, and who lived within. 


	2. crow

The crows called out from thinning branches as he paced down the packed earth trail. If the winds that pulled at the long ties of his scarf were cold, he did not feel it. 

It had taken the Swordsman many years to come to terms with that. On the dreaded day when his own brother had cut him down by the orders of their family, leaving him to choke on his own blood in the dojo...the Swordsman remembered to vividly the hatred, the bitterness and fury that had clouded his heart.

He had thought the darkness claiming him was one of death; if only it were so easy. When the Swordsman had awoke, he was changed; demons, drawn to the darkness straining his soul, had amassed upon him. It was only the spirit of the Dragon that had saved him with the last of its might; the mighty beast bound to him beyond death had bellowed a war cry, slaughtering the demons to the soul. The bodies, well...

The Swordsman had died a man, and awoke an  _oni_. The bodies of the demons had latched onto him and changed him so thoroughly that he barely felt as himself. He’d been rabid; he’d slaughtered his own kin out of revenge, egged on by his Dragon and the demon’s blood pulsing through his artificial body.

His life had been saved, but at what cost? For many years the Swordsman had wandered the lands and traveled over the seas, fighting and killing, endlessly searching for his purpose...and his brother. He could not rest until his blade had the chance to taste the blood of the man who had betrayed him. 

The Swordsman had been little more than unholy crowfood...at least until the Monk. The Monk had found him on his travels, and had reached out to touch his misshapen hands with reverence, with understanding. 

“ _I know the doubts that plague you. I know the horrors you have seen. And I accept you_ ,” the Monk had said, his words a balm upon the Swordsman’s heart. “ _I accept all that you are and hold no judgement. Come, my brother. My student. Let me help you find peace._ ” 

And the Monk had; this, too, took many many years of patience, of work, of meditation and training. Until at long last, the Swordsman had felt...cleansed. As if the demonic energies inside of his body were at last under his command, an extension of himself, of his sword. Now, he ached to find his brother, not to kill, but to share that...he still loved him. He had forgiveness to give his tortured elder brother. He had peace to share. 

The crows called out as the Swordsman passed beneath the trees; beneath the oni’s mask, he frowned at them, and felt the Monk come to a halt beside him. 

“An ominous wind blows,” said the Monk. “Do you feel it, my student?”

The Swordsman did not, and he simply said, “Then we should follow its course, master.” 

“Indeed, we should.” 


	3. pumpkin

“Oi! Check me out, love!” 

The Sasquatch heaved a great sigh as he gingerly stepped from the thick treeline, eyes darting back and forth across the darkened gourd field before he gathered the strength to step free from their shelter. He was careful to drag his knuckles through the heavy imprints he left behind in the loamy soil, turning rich earth. 

“Be a little more quiet,” he gruffly ordered, unable to hide the note of concern that hitched in his beastly voice. “The farmers will hear you.” 

“Pish,” said his merry friend, hopping to feet. In her arms she carried her spoils--a carved pumpkin--and his heart nigh skipped a beat. Seeing his face, his friend quickly whispered, “no, don’t worry, bought it earlier at the market from the daughter! It’s legit, love. Didn’t steal it.” 

The Sasquatch breathed in relief, his curiosity coming to the front. “I know this custom...children carve and remove the seeds to make lanterns on Hallow’s Eve...but, it’s much too early.”  _And you are not a child_ , he didn’t say. 

“And before you get in a snit,” said his friend, “I  _did_  keep the seeds and we can roast’em with the whole thing later. I just wanna show you what I can do.”

The Sasquatch was confused until the girl held the pumpkin to her chest. It was illuminated with the blue light of the magical contraption strapped to her torso, and though different from the candlelight of tradition, the effect was still rather striking. 

Especially as it became apparent that his friend could not carve a pumpkin worth a damn. The Sasquatch fell to his backside and chortled. The pumpkin had a lopsided grin without teeth, and the eyes were of two different sizes and spaced too widely; the nose was a crude square instead of a triangle. 

She stomped her foot as his laughter continued. “Wh--stop laughing! Hey!” Unerringly, her temper dissipated as she too began to laugh. “Aw, stuff it, you absolute--” 

From far across the field, the light of the farmhouse came on. The Sasquatch took notice of the torches that flickered to life, and all of his mirth was swept away by a tide of ice; his friend noticed this too, and turned to see it. 

“Aw, shit.” She tugged her jacket closed to hide the light of her clockwork heart. “Let’s go! Back into the forest, quickly!” 

She scrambled up onto his back and he fled into the tree lines, lunging forward with his knuckles against the ground. They fled until only the moonlight illuminated them, and left the rest of the forest shrouded in deepest dark; not that either of them were afraid. No beast challenged the Sasquatch, and his friend had seen far worse than whatever the forest had to hide. 

“Are you alright?” He rumbled as she slid off of his back, kicking at the thick leaf litter. 

“Oh, yeah. No, I’m good. I’m sorry.” She sounded as small as her height suggested. “I just...wanted to give us a chuckle. Seems kind of stupid to have spent so much on somethin’ like this, don’t it?” 

Perhaps, but the Sasquatch knew that she did not operate as he did; she did not know how limited or unlimited her time was, and so she seized the joys as they came, and fought off the sorrows as well. She never lingered; never tried to. His young friend, unstuck from time and only anchored here by his own cobbled knowledge of machinery and unnatural magics...

His fur stood on end and his friend’s clockwork heart flickered. She gasped, dropped her pumpkin, and spun; he reached down to twist the gears on the back to wind up her heart, not liking how the light had pulsed so quickly. They watched as the darkness of the forest gave way to golden light, and a woman stepped free with tattered, golden wings trailing behind her. 

“Ah, my Time Traveler,” said the Witch of the Wild. “And the Beast...do you prefer Sasquatch?” 

They remained silent, wary. The Witch laughed lightly, but her eyes were empty of her humor. 

“I have not come to kill you, my friends. Worry not.” 

“Then why did you come,” asked the Time Traveler. 

“I am being hunted,” said the Witch. “I need your help. You owe me, after all...” 

The Time Traveler’s shoulders slumped, and with a low growl, the Sasquatch watched as the Witch walked forward to collect on her Debt. 


	4. treats

It had been nearly two years since she had stepped into Eichenwalde, and to her disappointment, it did not look like it had grown at all. She had known that while the townsfolk had been safe withing the spacious castle, the town had been left in ruins from Junkenstein’s attack, but she expected some form of progress made.

Certainly, the people had rebuilt. But the air itself seemed to be as steeped in misery as it had the day of the attack. The Alchemist did not appreciate the reminder, or the feeling of deja vu. 

Passing by the tavern  _Lion’s Den_  she was somewhat relieved to see that, at least with the help of alcohol, there was  _some_  joy to be found. The Alchemist entered after a moment of thought, remembering that they served a fine, hearty tea along with their signature ales and spirits. 

The tavern smelled of tobacco and dried liquor, stale and spoiled. An unpleasant combination that one had to be properly drunk to ignore. To many, it was unbearable; to the Alchemist, it reminded her of her youth, and the men she had once fought alongside. It was an old ache, comparable to what the cold did to her joints; one that she lived with, but one she could not completely ignore. 

The tavern was filled with cheers and music; amid a great crowd the Alchemist recognized two young faces and felt even her pessimistic spirits rise. Two men laughed and groaned their upset as they left the table the crowd had circled round. They had lost, no doubt; but what did they expect from playing against one so talented as the Gamesmaster? 

She was unmistakable; on each cheek were carved a pair of scars, raised, pink flesh still a testament to their newness. The Gamesmaster had been a mere sixteen summers when she had left her home with naught but a gargantuan machine to make a name and fortune for herself; no tavern that hosted her went without entertainment, for the lass could fight as well as she played, and she won her bouts fair and square. 

Her charming friend, a young man with dark brown skin and long locs tied back into a high ponytail strummed on his lute, playing the Gamesmaster a victory tune with a cheerful laugh. The Bard went by many names and many titles, so many that there it was far simpler to call the man what he was. The songs he played were always great, soaring tales; some of them were bouts of victory, inspiring a great need to run fast and free in the fields. Others were ballads of love and loss, soothing the weary soul. 

The Alchemist had met both of them separately, but had not known them to have begun to travel together; judging by the Bard’s hat full of coppers, silvers, and the occasional gold, perhaps they had seen it as a fine business venture. 

The Alchemist approached the table, and the Gamesmaster saw her. She gasped, and her young face was brightened with a grin; “Granny One-Eye! I didn’t know you were in town!” 

“I’ve only just arrived, child.” The Alchemist chuckled as she took the seat vacated by one of the men. 

“Even better–hey, hey, buzz off, would ya? Show’s over!” The Gamesmaster scowled and scolded until the crowd dispersed to the other tables while the Bard laughed heartily, his nimble fingers plucking the strings. Warmth spread through the Alchemist at the sound, and allowed herself to relax. She ordered tea and waited for it to steep as the Gamesmaster gathered her coin and cards, then dealt the Alchemist a hand. “Have any news for us, Granny? Or perhaps some treats?” 

“How have you been, Alchemist?” asked the Bard far more respectfully, leaning back in his chair. “It’s been a while. We were starting to get worried.” 

“You two are too young to worry over an old woman like me,” said the Alchemist as she picked up her hand. Her face betrayed nothing of what it seemed, and the Gamesmaster’s own cardsface was equally impressive and blank. “I am still looking for someone.” 

The Gamesmaster sobered in a moment, discarding one card and drawing another from the deck. “Your daughter, still?”

Old pain nipped at her heart. “Yes,” the Alchemist said. 

“We’ve kept an ear to the ground for you,” said the Bard, “but the stories are all the same. Said that she vanished from the battlefield like the wind took her away.”

“One can hope.” There were things worse than the wind that could defile the dead, and though she felt hollow at the thought, the Alchemist would rather her daughter dead and at peace than otherwise. She laid out her hand, suddenly not feeling up to the game anymore, and was not surprised to see that the Gamesmaster’s own hand had trumped hers. “I do have something for you two–here.” 

The Alchemist withdrew a small pouch of dried persimmons from the inside of her robes, and watched their young faces light up. They immediately split the offerings into three equal shares, and the Gamesmaster cheered, “Thanks, Granny!” as she dug in. The Bard shared his thanks as well, and savored his treats with a low hum echoed by the delighted upbeat of his music. 

The Alchemist watched as the younger generation found their peace, even in the bleak time, and smiled.


	5. tricks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw for slight body horror!

The Witch was most pleased. 

The Time Traveler’s heart was still so soft, and all she had to do was mention the Debt and that she was being pursued by a vicious vampire, and the girl was ready and willing to fight on her behalf. 

“ _The Countess haunts my every waking moment_ ,” she’d said. “ _I am relying on a charm, but she is quite powerful, and I don’t have much time…_ ” 

“ _You did save my life,_ ” the Time Traveler had said, one hand coming to make a fist over her heart, “ _and for that, I’m grateful. I’ll slay that vampire for you, love. Then…life for a life?_ ” 

“ _A life for a life indeed. Thank you, my friend. She lives in the abandoned château a week’s journey from here._ ” 

The Sasquatch hadn’t looked as convinced at the Witch’s situation, but the creature was paranoid by nature. Even if the Witch had been in as grave a danger as she had proclaimed, the beast would doubt her anyway. But, he would still follow the Time Traveler; they were the best of friends. Had the girl a spark of magic, the Witch would even call him a Familiar. 

Well, she was glad that the Time Traveler did not have magic. So long as she stayed isolated and away from human world with her unfortunate friend, she would never become an enemy of the Witch. 

The Witch felt the air grow cold and heard, at the edge of her hearing, the sound of light footsteps on leaves. She looked behind her, frowning, and saw nothing but a bright, glowing stone. 

She turned and went to inspect it, finding a transportation rune shallowly carved into the speckled surface; magic simmered like fire against her gloved fingers, familiar enough to make the Witch nervous, but clearly not malicious. 

“ _Que onda_ ,” a voice whispered just behind her. 

The Witch whirled with a startled gasp, her broom swinging out from her other hand to swat the offender away. A girl danced out of the range with a laugh, her burial dress fluttering around her knees. 

She was a pretty thing, with brown skin and long, fluttering braids that reached her waist. Her face was decorated with white face paint, intricate shapes done in an accented, vibrant pink and green flowers painted along her jaw. Yellow flowers were braided into her hair, their petals shedding with her movements. Magic crackled against the air around her, bleeding out into the night.

“Long time no see, Wild One,” said the girl. “Hunted by a vampire, you say? And is it  _the_  Countess? That’s unfortunate. What did you do to get yourself into this mess, hm?” 

“What–” The Witch clutched her broom, and squinted through the gloom. “Who are you?”

“Who am–really? Ha, we go through this every time. There, there, hold on.” The girl hooked an index finger into the corner of her mouth, and pulled on her cheek; her flesh stretched grotesquely, face squishing and contorting with unnatural flexibility to expose the half of a skull and razor sharp teeth set in a challenging grin. 

“Ring any bells,  _amiga_?” asked the Calaca. 

The Witch relaxed somewhat. The Sugared Skull was in no way an  _ally_  but she was not an  _enemy_. The Sugared Skull described herself as a  _friend_. 

“Changed skins again, have you?” the Witch asked as the Sugared Skull released her own face, the skin snapping back into place with a pop of magic. “Who was she this time?”

“Do you care?” The Sugared Skull fluttered her stolen lashes. “She wasn’t one of  _yours_ , if that’s what you’re asking.” 

“Then, yes, why do I care?” The Witch shrugged. “You overheard me, then.” 

“Mm. Should be a fun fight,” said the Sugared Skull, a finger to her lips in thought. “A human girl against a five hundred year old vampire.” 

“She has her advantages. What do you want from me?” 

“Nothing. Just looking to make the right friends in the right places.” The Sugared Skull walked closer, plucking her runed stone from the Witch’s hand with a wink. “Been hearing some rumors about you. Some rumblings from the Other Side. You’re planning something big, and I want in.” 

“Do you, now?” 

“Not as a fighter,” the Sugared Skull rushed to interject. “But you’re going to need more magic than you have right now. I know a couple friends–they owe me a few things. I get you the resources you need, you keep your  _friend_  in mind when you’re ripping open the veil. Yeah?” 

The Witch pretended to think on it, to let the Calaca sweat it out; not that the being could actually sweat. Then, she nodded. “Provide me with proof and I’ll be happy to make arrangements with you… _friend_.” 

“Ah, that’s why I like you, Witch.” The Sugared Skull reached up, and tapped her on the nose; she vanished with a flare of purple magic when the Witch blinked next, her laughter on the wind the only indication that she’d been there to begin with.


	6. masks

The Soldier marched. 

Two years ago, the lord of Eichenwalde had asked him to stay the night. The Soldier had known what it meant; not just the one night, but another night. Then another. And another. Until he was a part of the king’s guard, another warrior of honor, duty bound. 

The Soldier had said, “ _I am no guard, my lord. I am a soldier. I am a being of war._ ” 

He had ignored the Alchemist’s misty gaze, the Gunslinger’s confused stare. The Archer had left long before any of them, stealing away once the Witch had vanished from the battlefield. 

He had left. Gathered his gun and his potions and his mask, and left. 

He was a man of war, and war protected nothing. He was not fit to stay in a castle, to wear the adornments of a hero. He had, once. It had ended with a blazing fire and the loss of a man he considered as much a part of himself as his own arm. 

So on the Soldier marched. He fought off the beasts of the night when he could. He answered the call of battle when villages reached out to him, begging. He took no pay, and accepted food only when he needed to. He was not worth coddling or praise; wars profited only the ones who never saw them. He had learned that by now. 

It was in a seedy tavern in a backwater town three days travel from Eichenwalde that the Soldier felt the coldest stirrings of war itself. He did not turn to meet it, not yet. It would come to him. 

And it did, indeed. A giant of a man, dressed in a traveler’s simple clothes that hid a warrior’s grace and build, sat beside him at the bar. He ordered an ale, and the Soldier raised his tankard to his face, but did not drink. He felt exposed without his mask, and his paranoia was rewarded when the man beside him nodded. 

“Old Soldier,” greeted the man. He spoke with the cultured tones of a high noble man, layers of his disguise masking and blurring the lines of what the Soldier knew of war. “You were at the gates of Eichenwalde’s defense.” 

It was not a question. The Soldier grunted, but did not answer, and took a drink. 

“Did you hear of the Witch raising that mad doctor and his pet once more, just a year ago?” The man drank from his cup as well while the Soldier’s hand tightened against the handle. “She was defeated.” 

“Maybe she’ll stay down.” The words dragged themselves from the Soldier’s throat, the sound like gravel. 

“There are stirrings that she will not. That even now, she plots a war.” 

The Soldier did not flinch, but it was a close thing. 

“I wonder how Man will fare should her machinations come to pass,” mused the man out loud. “A war of that caliber...imagine it.” 

“I can imagine the dead,” said the Soldier. “And the toll will be great.” 

“Yet, from the ashes, will not a more powerful Man rise?” The man laid down his coin for his drink, and the Soldier’s. “It is worth a thought.” 

“War is worth nothing.” 

The man dipped his head. “To each their own.” 

“You warmonger,” the Soldier growled beneath his breath, fingers twitching for his gun. “What fortune would you gain from that Witch’s war?” 

“None at all. I do not seek profits for myself through a war...only through conflict can Man evolve.” The Warbringer smiled easily. “I would say that the Witch does us many favors.” 

He left as quickly as he entered, and the Soldier did not follow him. He stewed in his thoughts, finished his drink, and put his mask back on. Then, hefting his belongings over his shoulder, the Soldier began to march once more; back to Eichenwalde, and the war that awaited him.  


	7. stars

It was the stars that lead him. 

The Archer had no destination in mind. They said that the stars could guide the wandering spirit home; but the Archer had no home to return to. So where did they lead him? He knew not, and that was how he preferred it. 

Every death brought honor. With honor, redemption.

The Archer knew without a doubt he would spent the rest of his life as a killer, stained red and black to the very core of his self. He would never escape the scent of blood or death. If it was not the foes he felled in battle, then it was that of his brother. 

“ _What if I told you, Archer, that your brother still lives?_ ” 

Such foul lies to spew from the Witch’s lips. At the time, when she had been tempting him in a last ditch effort to regain power over the encounter, he hadn’t needed more than a breath to reject her with word and his arrows. Even now, something in him rankled; his brother was dead. By his  _own_  hand. His brother could not have survived such a decisive strike. 

But some nights, the Archer wondered. The Witch had resurrected their fallen foes with the ease of a single breath. A single incantation, and Junkenstein, the Reaper, the Monster, they were brought back to life. 

Clearly she had great power. Was her assurance of his brother’s life because she knew where he was? Or because  _she_  had him in her clutches?

The thought shook the Archer to the core. His little brother, in that vile woman’s hands? If the gods had any mercy in them, they would have made sure to keep her away from his body. It was impossible; or was he being willfully blind? 

And, if he was wrong, if she did have sway over his brother...then what could the Archer do? He could not strike down the man he had already betrayed a second time. Yet, the thought of dying at his blade was unappealing only because it wouldn’t be  _his brother_  swinging the sword; but the Witch. 

It all came back to the woman. The Archer looked up to the stars once more, and plotted his course back to that cursed town. The Witch still lived, this much he knew, whether or not she held his brother captive would be answered upon the next encounter. 

Either way; the Archer would slay her. If he freed his brother, all the better. And if his brother continued to live, and exacted his revenge...

Then that, truly, would be a death worthy of honor. Perhaps then, the Archer would find his redemption.


	8. black cat

The Child watched the streets with a careful eye, her heart pounding in her chest. It was risky, she knew, to reveal what she had created. Not all of the townsfolk would be so understanding of her reasonings; not all of the townsfolk would accept her creation, seeing as it ran too close to the infamous Junkenstein, and her methods resembled that of the Witch. 

Magic and metal. Sorcery and science. Two schools never to mix, for when they did it seemed all they brought were ruin.

The Child had, indeed, used magic; not her own, of course, but what little remained of her mothers, contained in charms and toys and dolls meant to keep the Child company through her lonely, long life. The Child had outgrown them by the second time the Witch had brought the reviled Junkenstein to assault the city, so the sacrifice was a harmless necessity. 

In fact, she sacrificed nothing; perhaps her toy boar would never again race around the room, but if it meant her home was safe, then the Child was satisfied with this.

“Okay,” whispered the Child as she hopped down from the windowsill, padding toward the shadows where her creation awaited. “I think it is okay if you come out now.” 

A low hum, like her mother’s lullaby, filled the room. Lights flashed as the Child’s creation opened its eyes for the first time; heavy feet clipped against aged wood as it took its first stumbling steps from the work table, careful. The Child raced to the double doors of her workhouse and threw them open; a black cat doll twined around her ankles, the only other remaining vessel of her mother’s immaculate magic. 

“Come! Come, come!” The Child beckoned from the light. “There is no one here, and it is day; you will be safe.”

The creation stumbled only once as it hobbled out of the workhouse and into the sun; it raised a mighty hand and observed how it flexed open and closed, marveling. 

“I am,” said the being, “awake, now?” 

“Yes!” The Child cheered, loudly. “You can speak!” 

“I...can? I can. I am speaking now.” The creature spoke in gentle tones; not quite like the Child’s mother, as she was gone forever from the world, but all magic carried a mark of its origins. “I am speaking!” 

“You are!” The Child took the creation’s hand and tugged. Four legs moved, stumbling like a newborn foal, until balance was regained and it followed the Child out of the alley, into the streets proper. 

There were gasps, and shrieks, and sharp cries for help; the townsfolk fled even as the Child raised both hands, calling for them, “Wait, please! She will not harm you! She is made to protect you!” 

“I...protect...” The words, somehow, seemed right. Yes, the being realized with a start, that was what it-- _she_ \--was made for. The magic within her pulsed in time like a heartbeat, filling her with a mother’s love. “...Your safety is my primary concern.” 

“Devil’s child,” hissed the pumpkin farmer. “Just like the Witch, you are!” 

“I am  _not_  like that witch!” shouted the Child, incensed. “How dare you!” 

“What else are we meant to think,” said a bar maid returning from her shift at the tavern, clutching ale stained rags to her chest. “It’s...it’s hideous! It is a monster!” 

“Or,” creaked an old voice, “you are all blind fools who fall headfirst into fear.” 

An old woman flanked by a young man came into view. The woman, though shorter than her companion, left with only one eye, and hair as white as winter’s snow, walked with a fighter’s posture. The young man at her side weaved around people, nimble as a fish, lute strapped to his back. 

“Take it from an old alchemist; this is magic born from love.” The old woman nodded toward the Child and her creation. “See how gentle the light is? And the shape. It not human at all, but how many of you have been harmed by those that appeared human in shape? All of you, I’d bet.” 

“What’s the fuss now, Granny One-Eye--” A girl, cheeks scarred, hurried to the scene, and then gasped upon it. “--Oh,  _wow_ , would you look at that! It’s gorgeous!” 

The creation ducked her head. The Child beamed; bold, the girl with scarred cheeks and the young man left the side of the old Alchemist to approach the Child, voices soft with wonder. 

“The craftsmanship is unparalleled,” said the girl, stroking her fingers over the arms of the creation. 

“Take a look at that weapon; and here, see, there’s a few stones in this arm.” The young man put his ear to them, and beamed. “They’re shields!” 

“See,” laughed the Alchemist. “This is no threat to you.” 

The creation stood tall as the townsfolk began to approach, slowly, like frightened beasts; when asked about the runes carved into the sturdy, four legs, the Child explained that with a thought, the creation could become so strong and so unbreakable that only a god would be able to move her from such a spot. 

The Unmovable would have puffed her chest in pride, could she draw breath;  _I shall protect this place_ , she thought to herself, and found security in that thought.  _I shall protect all who live here...that is my purpose. That is why I was created._


	9. candles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw for a character being conscious but her body is completely out of her own control. 
> 
> also, it bears repeating; The Witch Is Not A Good Person.
> 
> edit: hey ps gang if you think this is at all like, a Romantic situation, or even slightly considered this to be a pro-pharmercy chapter uhhhh maybe dont because the witch is literally abusing a woc and, through the victim's eyes, its bad and wrong. just. yknow. throwing that out there cause apparently there are Some Demons that would think otherwise.

She dreamed. 

Or, perhaps, she desperately  _wished_  she was dreaming. When she was held, under spell, in the soft satin coffin beneath the earth she could dream that she was back on the battlefield astride her horse. That she flew over the grass, sword held tight in her hand as the roars of her companions filled the air. 

She would be the Raptora again, protecting the innocent by shedding blood and sweat, collecting scars and nightmares. When she met her mother again, the Raptora would meet her with peace and pride; and her mother, surely, would see all the good she had done and be as proud of her as well. It was all the Raptora had wanted. 

She hadn’t wanted the arrows piercing her breast and throat. She hadn’t wanted to be thrown from her horse amid stinking bodies and rotting soil. 

She hadn’t wanted the Witch. No, the Raptor had. 

“ _I can save your life, little bird._ ” 

“ _Please_ ,” the Raptora had rasped, “ _save me…please…_ ” 

“ _Then your life will belong to me_ ,” had whispered the Witch. “ _Do you understand?”_

The Raptora had agreed. And yes, her life had been saved; but not in the way she had thought it would be. The Raptora had not been able to move; the Witch had told her to get up and she had, but she’d made no conscious decision on that. 

Horror had filled her when she realized what she had done. The Witch had given her a smile. 

“What, did you think I would let you squander that life to return to your battle? Hardly. Come with me.” 

So the Raptora had died. The Witch had buried her body beneath enchanted soil, and left. The madness threatened to consume the shell left behind; the Witch always whispered to her in the dark, gentle and sweet and loving and all the more frightening for it. She had tried to resist; but, eventually, she had broken. 

 _Come to me_ , said the Witch, and so the Possessed felt her limbs twitch. She pushed against the roof of the coffin and found that it opened easily, the weight of the soil gone. She sat up and breathed out, purple smoke falling from the wounds that had never healed, from her lips, her eyes like tears. The room was full of gentle candle light, dozens of candles lighting the way. 

It was easy on her eyes, though it mattered little. Nothing mattered, anymore.

She walked through the candlelit halls, and came upon the Witch in a living den; upon a rack sat the Raptora’s armor, and deep in side the Possessed screamed at the sight. The once gleaming silver was tarnished deep black, and purple veins of twisted magic pulsed. The Witch, of course, was in the center of the room, perusing through the book she always wore at her hip. 

The Witch looked up and smiled warmly. “Ah, good. Come to me.” 

The Possessed did. 

“You’ve certainly kept well, haven’t you…yes…everything in working order?” The Witch poked and prodded, nodding to herself. “Yes, yes, no rigor mortis or decay at all; remarkable. The only thing that marks you as dead is that smoke. Oh, and those eyes…perhaps I’ll keep you out of the dark for a bit, yes.” 

The Possessed looked away from the Witch’s friendly expression, deeply disturbed. She saw her armor again and stared, especially at the twitching growths on the back. 

“Do you like it, my little bird?” The Witch took her hand. “You will wear that very soon. I have great need of you. A battle is coming, a mighty one like this town has never seen before and never shall see again…a battle almost three years in the making.” 

One of the growths burst open, spilling potion and loose feathers to the floor. The Possessed watched as her armor grew a single wing, black as pitch, the other still squirming and forming in its magical cocoon. 

“Won’t your enemies be surprised to see you? The grand Raptora, back in the flesh.” The Witch laughed warmly. “They shouldn’t be. After all…”

The Witch stroked over her jaw, turning her head herself so they locked gazes. The Possessed would have wept, had she been able. 

“Heroes never die,” the Witch breathed. 


	10. arachnid

The woods were silent. 

The Countess had been alive for over five centuries. She had endured civil wars, revolutions against the rich  _and_  the poor, famines and plagues, all by being smart and knowing when to remain steady and when to flee. There were some quarry that were not worth the effort. 

Stilling her horse, the Countess tried to, once again, find the damned Witch through the echoes of her blood. It had been shred of luck that she’d been able to snare a taste; the Swordsman had unleashed the full power of his sword, cutting down Junkenstein’s monster for a second time. He’d scored a glancing strike against the Witch’s arm, drawing that sweet blood, and the Countess had pounced. 

A single, bare mouthful of the Witch’s blood hadn’t been enough to taint her with its inherent, magical qualities, but it had been enough to leave a one way bond. No matter where the bitch ran, no matter if she crossed over oceans, put half the world between herself and the Countess, the Countess  _would_  find her. So long as a drop of blood remained in those pretty veins, there was no escape from her sixth sight. 

And yet. Still no luck. 

It was obviously magic at work; no doubt a charm of pure silver and cloved garlic doused in blessed water. 

No matter. Time would wear the charm ineffective someday, and the Countess had eternity to hunt the Witch. 

Which meant she could tend to other matters, such as the silence of her woods. They were once the family orchards but were now overtaken by wild seedlings, becoming part of the thick forests that bordered the  _Château Guillard_. The late Madame Guillard had a fondness for apples, and though that no longer was the case for her cursed daughter, the Countess could not find it in her heart to tear down her family legacy. 

Besides, private forests meant plent of game and sport and privacy. And, the Countess supposed, interlopers. Whatever had invaded her space was powerful; the animals were gone, hiding for their lives. Even the Countess’s hunting horse, trained not to startle, was clearly nervous and snorting with every exhale as it refused to take another step. 

“Useless,” tsked the Countess as she swung off of her horse, then slapped it on the rear to send it sprinting back for the château. “I am better off alone, besides.”

The Countess turned back to the woods and took off, her speed blurring her form among the darkness. She came upon a set of tracks that were  _clearly_  inhuman, and unfamiliar; she knelt beside them with a frown, trying to determine the origin. It was shaped like a human’s foot, but it was far, far too large to belong to--

Someone warm,  _blisteringly so_ , leaned against her arm. “Pst,” they whispered, “what’cha lookin’ at?” 

The Countess lashed out with her claws, disturbed.  _No one sneaks up on me. My senses are unparalleled!_

“Whoa, whoa, love, where’re you aimin’ at?” called the voice from behind her. “I’m right here!” 

The Countess hissed, whirling around. All that was left behind her was the fading outline of a silhouette in blue light. 

“What--” Stinging pain as a three darts buried themselves in her arm. Furious, and--though she was loathe to admit it--the Countess stumbled forward, staring at her wound. They were...a tavern’s darts. Not even silver. “ _What?”_

“Over here, gorgeous!” Another turn, another dart buried in her flesh. The three in her shoulder had been taken before she could blink. Never had the Countess encountered a being with speed rival to hers; it had to be magic. 

The Countess clapped a hand over her own throat to protect it, the other hovering near her face. She had faith that sheer instinct would spurr her to protect her eyes. 

The darts kept coming, and the Countess realized that her attacker was not out to kill; scare, perhaps. Wound, possibly. But not to  _kill_. 

She was...dare she say it...intrigued. And, the Countess smirked, learning quickly how they attacked. She only had to wait for the pattern of three to pause--to catch their breath? Recharge their magic?--and... _there_. The Countess dug her heels in, spun, and lunged. A startled shout and a warm body beneath hers were the payment; the Countess fitting her hand around the assailant’s throat and got her first good, solid look at them. 

The girl beneath her was flushed red from exertion, from life. Her pulse was rapid beneath the Countess’s fingers; brown hair stuck to a sweaty forehead, and clear lensed goggles gave the Countess a look at brown eyes and a dusting of freckles. 

The Countess tilted her head. She appeared, by all accounts, to be a regular human girl. Aside from the glowing contraption on her chest... _wait. That is the key._

“Oh, uh, whoops,” she stammered. “Best two out of three, love?” 

“Afraid not, chérie.” The Countess smirked. She knew she was bleeding, but strangely, the pain seemed far away.  _This...was fun._  “You will explain yourself, and if I find it excusable for your attack on my person, I  _may_  let you live.”

“Oof, okay, fair fair fair.” She blew a lock of brown hair from her face. “Figured that you weren’t all as bad as the Witch said; if you really  _were_  hauntin’ her like she said, you’d be, well,  _hauntin’_  her, yeah? Somethin’ ain’t addin’ up to me.” 

“You  _work for the--”_

“She saved my life and twisted my arm about it, love, no need to get your knickers in a twist. Course with all that tight leather, I gotta wonder, are you even  _wearin’_  any--” The contraption on the girl’s just dinged. “And there we go!” 

And she  _vanished_  from beneath the Countess in a swirl of blue. The Countess could feel her at her back, and more alarmingly, the press of sharp silver against her throat. She recognized the feel of it as another dart, and she swallowed hard. The little fly had the spider trapped in her own web;  _the party is over. And yet...she **is**  quite fun._

“Best two out of three, chérie?” The Countess drawled. 

The silver was pulled away, and she felt a tap on her shoulder. Slowly the Countess turned, and had to do a double take; a Sasquatch loomed just above her, holding a young tree over his hair shoulder, clearly ready to take a swing had things not gone well for his young friend. 

“Okay, then,” the girl said, putting away her darts. “Let’s start over from the beginning.”


	11. gravestone

Under the cover of the new moon’s dark sky, the Witch took flight. Instead of her mighty wings she used her broom; for this ritual, she needed to be at as inconspicuous as possible. 

The lord of the castle was deep in slumber, and the guards on duty were all beneath her spell; soulless, empty, fit only to follow her orders. She dismissed them with an easy smile as she landed in front of the imposing gates. It rankled her that she could not seize the castle and its secrets, the untold power in those grand stones; but it would be hers, in time. She had to reign in her temper, her impatience; she had to bring herself to heel. 

The Summoner had taught her this lesson…thoroughly. The Witch shivered, though her tremors had naught to do with the cold night winds and everything to do with her memories. No other being had mastered her–and rightly so, as even the Summoner was not her  _master–_ but the dragoness had kept her in line. It was…thrilling. 

 _Enough memories_ , the Witch thought to herself, clearing her thoughts with a shake of the head.  _I must finish what I came here to do._

She hurried across the grounds to the lord’s private gravesite, where his ancestors lay beneath the ground. Their bones were dust and their souls far beyond her reach, but it was not the dead she was interested in; she opened her book and flipped to the ritual the Summoner had laid out before she had returned to her Hell. 

From the pouches at her sides, the Witch withdrew her powdered chalk, quickly crafting the outline of a giant man using the various gravestones as points of limbs; the torso, the head, the arms and legs…they were evenly spaced and just enough for her needs. 

Brushing off her gloves, the Witch withdrew two potions brewed at the peak of last month’s new moon. Her own blood, the hearts and livers of three wise ravens, and a snake’s tongue were the ingredients, and promised to bind and weave a mystical guardian through gravestones and soil; these potions she smeared over each stone, careful not to disturb the outline. 

Then, she gathered her great power of Life, and filled the channels she had left behind; the stones shuddered and shook and then, to her great delight, rose with quick, muted cracks. Soil and uprooted grass filled in for the fake body, and with her careful molding, the Witch created her own, deadly secret. 

The Gravefiller was a giant contraption of stone; it warbled at her with quiet beeps, curious. A raven fluttered from the overhanging branches of the naked limb of a tree, landing on its stone shoulder. The Gravefiller gently passed its soil fingers across the bird’s body, and it was tolerated; the Witch could not stop herself from laughing victoriously. 

“You will sleep here until the night of Hallow’s Eve,” said the Witch. “Disturb not the castle, my Gravefiller; when next we meet, you will be a force unmatched in death and power. Now, lay back to rest.” 

A tired series of chirps was the Gravefiller’s answer as it settled back into the ground, its gravestone body taking back their proper positions. Magic ensured the site looked undisturbed, and the Witch took up her broom and left the castle, her work done. 

The raven left behind perched upon the head of what would soon become the Gravefiller, and gave a mournful call.


	12. bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw for a touch more implied body horror, and physical disassociation

It was not often one was allowed into the home of the Witch of the Wild. Not that she was allowed at all; but like she’d let a set of mortal wards and spells keep her out. The Sugared Skull was not one to be held out so easily, especially not when the source of magic dealt with those of Death and Life; sources that the Sugared Skull could slip between so simply. 

She hummed as she entered the cabin, her gift hanging in a sling at her hip. She came to a halt in surprise at what awaited her. Sitting at the table was the corpse of what had once been the valiant hero, the Raptora. Her soul, her “life” had been spared Death’s embrace, but only to be held captive in flesh that was no longer alive. 

 _How long_ , wondered the Sugared Skull,  _has she been here like this?_

Purple tendrils of magic swirled around her, no doubt the Witch’s work. The Possessed turned her head slowly, as if unused to using her own body, and her eyes were milky white; the Sugared Skull, though she possessed no physical heart, felt a sympathetic pang at the state of a woman who had become a legend for the people. 

“ _Dios mio_ ,” murmured the Sugared Skull. “She did a real number on you, didn’t she?” 

But she did not say anything more; no matter how much the Possessed appeared to be yet another victim of the Witch, she was still under the woman’s power, and thus she could not be trusted. The Sugared Skull reached into the bag at her hip and withdrew a human skull and placed it upon the table. Though stripped clean of its flesh, somehow the skull retained a wealth of auburn hair in a mighty braid. 

“The skull of a Valkyrie,” the Sugared Skull told the Possessed, for the living corpse looked somewhat curious. “Choosers of the slain. Tell the Witch that all she need do is cut the braid, and crush the skull into a fine powder. She must drink the skull in a potion brewed with the blood of a ram, and weave the braid into her wings.” 

The Possessed slowly nodded. Her expression did not change, but the Sugared Skull knew she was miserable. With a nod of her own, the Sugared Skull abandoned the flesh of the girl she inhabited and traced her transportation magics back to her ally, flinging herself through the currents with a merry laugh. 

Along the way, she donned the skin of her favorite guise; another girl, skin a dark brown with wild, pink hair, the sides of her hair shorn to the scalp. The Sugared Skull had adored the rebellious look when she had found it to use for her own. 

She appeared in the tea room of her ally and did a double take at the company. A Sasquatch, one tea cup gently cradled in his massive paws as he rested his bulk on a straining chair. The Witch’s old Time Traveler, cheeks bulged like a hamster’s cheeks with tea as she stared at the Sugared skull. And of course, her ally, the Countess, observing the Sugared Skull’s arrival with an arched brow over the rim of a goblet filled with blood. 

“…Did I miss something?” 

“These are our guests,” said the Countess, setting her goblet down. “Now…has the Witch received her gift?”

“She most certainly has.” 

The Countess’s smile was sharp and pleased. “Excellent.”


	13. spirit

“Hop, hop, hop…”

The cold, howling winds carried her voice away as she trekked through the dark woods. The moon was nearly at its first quarter, and so it illuminated the path somewhat. Not that she needed it, thought the Jiangshi, a giggle coiled in her throat. Her night vision was clear and sharp, her nose even better. The charms and ornaments on her clothing jingled with each light hop forward; her Companion lead the way, a shower of frost following in its wake. 

It was much, much too soon for ice and snow. The Jiangshi cared not; it was only just a  _little_ , anyway. 

She had traveled far and long to get close to the woods of the Witch. The Other Side was astir with gossip and rumors of her; a human woman who had managed to accrue ageless immortality. The Jiangshi was not sure how; very few spirits knew what the Witch had done to escape Death and to master Life to her whims. She’d even managed to graft Death to a mortal man and twisted his soul and body until it was no longer recognizable. Many feared the Witch. Many more wanted the human’s soul, should she still have one. 

From what the Jiangshi had caught on the wind, a demon had caught a whiff of it; it stank of sin and evil, a delicious and enticing aroma to those that fed off of suffering. The Jiangshi had no intention of devouring the Witch herself; in fact, the Jiangshi was repulsed by the very notion. Her interest was strictly that of opportunity; the Witch, so the dark murmured, was planning a final assault upon the castle and township of a local lord, and was accepting help from those that wished to take advantage of it. So many souls up for the taking; the Witch had no interest in them, which would be such a waste of food. The Jiangshi intended to have her fill and see what became of the Witch. 

Would she be undone by her own misdeeds? Would she make the wrong deal with the wrong person and be devoured by her own Debtors? No doubt. Humans were so very arrogant; the Jiangshi and her friends had once been as arrogant, thinking they could brave the winter on their own…

The Jiangshi shook her head, the bones in her neck creaking with the motions. No, she could not think of that; the sorrows would weigh her down and keep her in place long enough for Hallow’s Eve to pass, and then the effort would be a true waste. 

She heard footsteps against the brush, and her Companion spirit quickly darted back to her side, peering nervously over her shoulder. The Jiangshi tilted her head, fighting rigor mortis, and watched as a well built, muscular man stepped out of the shadows. He was a human, the Jiangshi deduced with a sniff. He was shirtless, and his arm covered in a brilliantly shining metal. Runes of destruction were artfully carved into the gold, catching the light artfully. 

“What a surprise,” said the human man, his voice deep, moneyed, dangerously clever. “You are far from home, are you not, spirit?”

The Jiangshi pried open her jaw, coughed harshly. Ice chips scattered from her mouth as she thawed her own, frozen vocal chords. 

“I could say the same for you, human,” said the Jiangshi. Her accent was thick, she could tell, but she had studied English and other languages for many, many years before her death. “Don’t you know what lies in this forest?”

“Indeed I do. My intentions are to ally my strength with the Witch.” The human man flexed his fist, metal fingers barely ringing as they curled against a palm. “If only to see what breed of Man arises from the war.” 

“So bold!” With effort, and the sound of branches cracking under the weight of ice, the Jiangshi brough her arms to her chest, linking her hands, and beamed. “You would kill your own kind?” 

“I will test them, yes,” confirmed the Warbringer.

“Humans are so  _frightening_ ,” the Jiangshi said around her smile. “You must have a strong soul…”

“One that is  _not_  for your fangs.” The Warbringer laughed. “You should take care not to  _eat_  your allies.”

“Understood,” the Jiangshi giggled. “Do you think the Witch will win?”

“I do not care if she does. I am not here for  _her_  victory.” The Warbring swept his arm to the woods. “Shall we?”

“Hop, hop, hop,” murmured the Jiangshi as the Warbringer walked beside her, and the dark shadows swallowed them both.


	14. orange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw for mind control

The Gamesmaster woke up in a cold sweat, still hearing the shrieking grind of metal. The phantom stink of gun oil and burnt flesh lingered from her nightmares, chased her into the waking world. To her credit, she was silent upon her awakening; no more than a sharp inhale through her nose and a long, slow exhale. She lay beneath the rough sheets of the tavern’s bed and fought off the urge to tremble, jaw clenched so hard her teeth ached. 

Over and over again, she told herself this;  _I’m not on the battlefield anymore. The constructs are dead. My home is safe. My home is safe. My home and my mother and father are safe._

This, she knew for certain. It had been many months since she’d last been able to get the gold to send her parents a letter, but they had spoken of rebuilding and safety. And if the constructs had returned, there would be a great outcry that would ripple even to this sleepy, humble town, of that the Gamesmaster was certain. 

So she was safe. She did not have to become a childsoldier once again; her mechanical craft was naught but a fancy cart. This was fine with her. Now calmed, the Gamesmaster slowly sat up and ran a hand against the sweat damp tangle of hair, resettling her breathing. She noted her companions were both asleep; the Alchemist tucked into a comfortable looking chair by the room’s window, and the Bard breathing softly in the bed beside hers. The Gamesmaster dressed quickly, gathered a bit of coin and her playing cards, and snuck out of the room.

The orange lighting of the empty tavern below made the Gamesmaster frown. She’d been hoping, perhaps, for a few lingering customers--this seemed like the town to keep its old drunks--but it was empty, save for a few orange candles lit upon the tables. And that, thought the Gamesmaster, was truly odd. It seemed dangerous to allow any kind of open flame without the supervision of the owners. 

So absorbed was she in this discovery that the Gamesmaster did not see the woman upon the first or second glance. It was only when her eyes swept through the tavern a third time did she notice the muted gold of tattered wings peeking beneath a dark brown cloak. 

“Y--you,” the Gamesmaster breathed. She put a hand against her hip and sucked back a curse at her own foolishness; she’d left her pistol up in the room. 

“Be not afraid,” said the Witch in smooth, dulcet tones. What might have been beautiful once was twisted by the cold emptiness of her eyes, the unnatural smoothness of her skin, the color of her hair. The Witch was said to be old and yet she looked frozen, preserved in her youth. It disgusted the Gamesmaster, always had. “I’ve come to collect.”

“Collect?” 

“Surely, little rabbit, you haven’t forgotten?” 

The Gamesmaster gnawed on the inside of her cheek. She had been seventeen, her head full of horrors and war and death and fresh on the run from her armies, her country. The Witch had looked so different back then; perhaps she had once been truly kind, or perhaps the Gamesmaster hadn’t been able to cut through the bullshit as she was now, because when the Witch had gently offered to take the terrors away, the Gamesmaster had agreed. 

The price was but a single game, of the Witch’s choosing. 

“You want to play a game right now?”

“Have you somewhere else to be?” The Witch took a seat at a table. 

“...No.” The Gamesmaster snorted, and took her own seat. It was her own imagination that the candlelight seemed a bit brighter, was it not? Of course it was. “What’s the game?”

“Cards.” 

The Gamesmaster snorted, taking her deck out and shuffling, the Witch watching the movement. As if the Gamesmaster would cheat. As the Gamesmaster dealt them both a hand, she asked, “Only one round counts” 

“Yes. Only one hand, one game; as we promised.” The Witch nodded, picking up her cards. The corners of her mouth twitched; a bad hand, read the Gamesmaster. “Shall we sweeten the pot?” 

“What?” The Gamesmaster huffed, took a look at her own hand. She hummed, discarding one, drawing again. A better hand, for certain; better than the Witch’s, by the light furrow in the Witch’s brow. “What would someone like you have a need of gold for?” 

“It is not gold I want, girl.” The Witch’s eyes raised from her cards. “Your soul.” 

The Gamesmaster stared, then nearly swallowed her tongue choking back her laughter. “Oh, no deal.” 

“I would give you my book. It holds every contract I have; including yours. Including,” the Witch breathed, “that Alchemist’s  _daughter._ ” 

The Gamesmaster no longer wanted to laugh, fury twisting her gut. “What? What did you say?” 

“I have the old woman’s daughter in my book. If you beat me, and win the book,” the Witch tossed a card, drew one, “you could set her free. You could set them all free.”

 Her face was blank, but the Gamesmaster was confident that her hand was useless; she herself held a straight flush. Her heart raced, her palms felt cold and clammy and her head seemed to spin; had the candles been this heavily scented of pumpkin spice? The orange glow was so much brighter. A result of her own panic, the Gamesmaster rationalized. It always happened. 

“Fine,” said the Gamesmaster with a snap of teeth. “Fine. My soul if I lose. Your book if I win. Deal?”

“Deal.” The Witch smiled but--ah, it was weak! She was bluffing, thought the Gamesmaster. She would never have offered up her own precious book; anyone as selfish as the Witch would never understand that the Gamesmaster would wager her own soul to free Granny One-Eye’s lost daughter. 

_I play to win, Witch._

The Gamesmaster laid down her hand with a smirk. The Witch put down her own hand; a simple flush. 

“Ha! I win!”

“Oh?” The Witch tilted her head. The world bucked beneath the Gamesmaster’s feet. “Have you now?” 

“I...” She looked down. Through the deep haze of sweet smelling smoke-- _what’s wrong...with the...candles...?_ \-- she saw that she’d been...completely wrong. Her hand, the Gamesmaster saw, was the flush. The Witch held the straight flush. Her shaking hand touched the worn surface of her cards, and did not change. 

“You lost,” said the Witch. 


	15. black

It was a curse. It had to be. 

The Lord sat upon his throne in the empty hall and stared into the black abyss that awaited him, always. Only the bare essentials of the staff remained out of loyalty and trust of their King, and he was forever grateful for it. Service could be bought with coin, but loyalty...ah.

It rankled his pride that he could not protect his home from the sleights of a single man and his unholy patron. Twice now his home had been set under siege by Junkenstein, the Monster, the Reaper...

The Witch. 

The attacks had been repelled, although the Lord could recognize the signs of impending assault. The ravens gathered around the parapets and ramparts; the wind howled shrilly through the trees. The town grew more and more quiet with every passing day. 

There had been...whispers. Of the Witch, or something, being seen in the woods. The Lord heaved a great sigh and slumped in his chair, feeling not the slightest bit embarrassed by his sloppy posture. What good was there in it? He held no court, had no retainers, no music, no...homeliness. 

He lived in a fortress of stone, and it had sheltered his people once. He feared it would have to be done so again. The days ahead seemed steeped in darkness, bleak and unforgiving. 

Would his people survive another assault? Would  _he?_  Could he forgive himself if he left the protection of his castle to outsiders yet again? No, thought the Lord. He would brave the abyss himself. He would become the great shield that stood between the Witch, her servants, and his people. 

He had, of course, sent...word. The Gunslinger, an old ally, was on his way even know, and a fierce soldier from the cold, Russian wilderness had given her word to come to his aide; he had put in a plea with the Duchess of Volskaya, and while she could not lend her armies without arousing suspicion, she could send her, quote, “mightiest warrior” to help him. 

Four had turned the tide once before. If they had to make do with three...then they would make do with three.


	16. bat wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HEYO ITS YA GAYS

“So,” began the Time Traveler, swinging her thin legs in the air as she sat upon the hearth’s mantle, “you’re a vampire, right?”

“The last time I checked, yes,” muttered the Countess. It had taken years of practice to be able to continue a conversation and read, and while she would have  _gladly_  traded the girl’s voice for  _The Divine Comedy_ , the Countess supposed she would have to make do.  _Apologies, Virgil._

“I dunno too much about’em,” said the Time Traveler. “Is it true you can hunt down anyone you’ve nipped on a’fore?” 

“This is true.” The Countess turned her page. 

“How do you...y’know, keep track of’em all? S’gotta be uh, noisy. Does the...alarm, trackin’, thingie...make noise...or...”

“Foolish girl,” the Countess sighed, “No, it is not...’crowded’. It is a feeling. A pull. And I am not distracted by many, as I do not leave any of my meals  _alive._  And before you start,” she began, hearing the affronted gasp the Time Traveler heaved, “I feed off of animals, not humans. Once, when I was young, and starving, I fed off of them...but no longer. I am a huntress, not a murderer.”

“Oh. Well...” The Time Traveler hummed to herself in thought, pink lips pursed as she swung her legs once more. “Roger that. Can you turn into a bat?”

The Countess chuckled, returning most of her attention to the thick tome of poetry in her hands. “It is possible. I can also assume the form of a raven, or a swarm of flies. I prefer spiders the most.” 

“That’s  _so cool_.” The Time Traveler propped her chin in both hands, elbows resting on her bobbing knees and, predictably, bobbing along with them. “So what else can you do?” 

“Is there a point to you pestering me?” The Countess’s eyes lifted once more from the pages of her book, and narrowed. Though her expression was one of malice and suspicion, there was a kindness to the quirk of her lips that the Time Traveler deduced was a rarity. “Are you seeking out my weaknesses to kill me?”

“Figured I coulda got ya’ back in the woods. Your skin,” and the Time Traveler pointed to her own, bared neck for an example, “started to get all irritated by the silver.” 

The Countess found her eyes lingering on the long expanse of unmarred skin a little too long, and somewhat embarrassed she quickly looked away. She wound up staring at the blue light in the center of the girl’s elaborate gold harness. “What is that? How did it happen?” 

“Oh, ah...” The Time Traveler squirmed, fingers falling to her lap to fidget. “It...well...my friend’s a bit of a scientist type. He wanted to dabble in some magics an’ I helped test’em.” 

“The Sasquatch?”

“Scientist,” corrected the Time Traveler sternly. “Yeah. Anyway, he--he wanted to put out a teleportation spell, so’s we could pop in from one place to another together. I went in first and it...buggered up, right? I got lost between Time an’ Space. So I was neither Here, nor There, nor  _anywhere_ , but I was all around at the same time. I was a paradox. I existed, and I didn’t, all in an infinite loop, an’ I might’ve been that way forever...” 

The Countess shut her book, her attention solely on the human. “ _Mon Dieu,_ ” she whispered in horror. She knew what it was like to be caught between states of being--alive, dead, and the twilight undeath--but to not exist and yet aware of it seemed a fate she would bestow upon anyone. “How did you...?”

The Time Traveler knocked on the harness. “He made this thingie here, carved a  _ton_  of runes and poured as much natural anchorin’ magic as he could. But it was the Witch that really helped him...she was the one that used her magic to help pull me out, and slap me back in. I can teleport a lil’, here an’ there, but only to places I can see. If this thing ever breaks...” 

The Time Traveler went silent. Her fidgeting had grown worse; the Countess found herself speechless, both for lack of anything worthwhile to say and in simple awe. How the girl could manage a smile when her very state of being relied on a clockwork heart and the Witch’s old magic, the Countess did not know. 

A thought struck her;  _if the Witch does die, then what happens to...?_

She drew in close, and set her hand on the girl’s bouncing knee. Startled, the Time Traveler stilled and blinked down at her; the Countess reached up, carefully grazed her fingers against the human’s warm, flushed cheek. Even through the leather of her glove, the Countess could feel that thrumming, vital life pounding just beneath the surface of her skin. 

“No matter what the outcome of this war is,” she said, her voice soft, “I will not let you disappear. I vow it.”

The Time Traveler leaned into the touch offered, and had the Countess a living heart, she thought, perchance, it might have skipped a beat at the girl’s careless beauty. 


	17. insects

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw for gore and body horror

Among the worms and maggots and flies buzzing ‘round the mound, the Witch found Junkenstein’s remains for the third and final time. 

He was a pitiful sight; his bones were now twice charred from cleansing fire, and scattered thoughtlessly in the ditch. The entire area was walled off by a multitude of crosses and other religious ornaments, all in a bid to somehow repel her or any spectre that would raise the unfortunate fool from his damned rest. 

Ah, mortals, thought the Witch with mocking fondness. 

Gathering Life in her palms the Witch turned the power upon the rotting, half burnt carcass. The golden light first cleansed the bones of putrid flesh and tissue that the corpse had clung to with stubborn demented passion, until only the bleached white of his bones remained. 

These, then, assembled themselves properly. The Witch poured more power, effortlessly thanks to the Sugared Skull’s fine gift. Cartilage followed to seal the bones in place. She carefully layered the muscle and fate, weaving nerve and veins. The organs were merely out of habit; Junkenstein was as alive as his erstwhile creations tended to be. 

For fun, she kept a few of the most vile of insects to eat him, slowly, from within; the flies and their larvae, fleas and ticks to feast like kings. It would do little but give her a private sense of satisfaction; his discomfort would be minimal, if he ceased in his madness long enough to realize he was indeed in pain. 

She gave him his brain next, and then with a sigh, ripped away his soul from the confines of her book and let it reside within mortal flesh once more. At once Junkenstein jerked and writhed on the ground with mad howls, his one arm and leg digging in the leaf litter and old mud as he experienced a year’s worth of torture in the span of a minute. 

She was not kind to his soul; why would the Witch bother?

“Enough,” she said firmly as Junkenstein’s lamentations grew into frightened whimpers, the doctor curling around himself like a scolded child. “Your baying irritates me, Junkentstein.”

“You,” he began, ragged, “you? Again? I thought, I thought...” 

“This is your last chance for revenge. Don’t you want it?” The Witch made her voice soft, gently, though she felt nothing but contempt for the madman rocking himself before her. “Your soul is mine either way. Why don’t you go out with a bang this time, hm?” 

“Of--of course. Yes...yes...revenge  _will be mine_!” 

“There you go,” the Witch muttered beneath her breath as Junkenstein shucked off his horror and delved deep into his obsession, hiccuping giggles in between his pitiful sobs. “Come. We’ll get you your clothes and your limbs.”

Junkenstein coughed harshly, turning into retches interspaced with his own laughter. A centipede fell into his palm, coated in blood and bile. He crushed the insect in his fist and rose it in the air. His roar split the night air: 

“They will rue the day they laughed at  _Doctor Jamison Junkenstein!_ ” 


	18. cauldron

The Bard was silent as he watched the Alchemist work. He was morose, somber; he mourned for the Gamesmaster with his whole heart. The Alchemist mourned with him, and it was with that thought that she stirred her brew with an extra hard flick of the wrist. Her spoon clanged against the cast iron side of the cauldron, but it did not even stir the Bard from his grief. 

It had been a waking nightmare to discover the girl gone from her bed, and the Witch’s spellwork all around the inside of the tavern. The owner had been found slumped over, lifeless, in the larder. The Gamesmaster’s card deck–and her losing hand–had been the only signs they could find of her. Not even the mechanical craft remained. 

Their safe haven no longer safe, the Alchemist had squired the Bard away back to the Lord’s keep and told him of what had happened. Thus, they were both welcomed; thus here the Alchemist sat, in the castle’s empty kitchens, her healing potion brewing and bubbling in its pot. There was no magic involved in this; just the simple herbs and minerals used by every wise old woman there ever was. 

“I shouldn’t have let her sleep on her own,” the Bard confessed in the silence. The Alchemist looked up from her cauldron. “We only did it for your sake,” he continued, his cheeks flushing with just a hint of color. “I thought it would be improper.”

“You are polite to a fault,” said the Alchemist gently, but not accusingly. “Rest assured, my sensibilities are not so easily offended.” 

“I know that now,” said the Bard, miserably. He buried his face in his hands as the Alchemist began to spoon her potions into the dozens of empty jars at her side, a few more captured in her glass darts. 

“The Witch will attack soon,” said the Alchemist. “She wants this keep toppled, though I cannot say why…” 

“Do you think she’ll bring–” 

“I know she will,” the Alchemist interrupted. The Witch had no doubt seized upon her chance to steal the Gamesmaster away and unto her side. “We will…need to be even more cautious. The woman that will meet you on the battlefield will not be–” 

“Yes she will!” the Bard countered. “Because we’ll defeat the Witch, and burn that book, and her soul  _will_  be returned. I won’t be swayed, Granny. I promise you that.”

When she turned to look at him, the Alchemist saw nothing but love–strong and fierce and bright, vicious and angry. The Bard would not let his beloved remain in the Witch’s hands for long; and he would not falter. The Alchemist stared at his stalwart face for a moment longer, then nodded with a smile of her own. 

She emptied her cauldron, cleaned it, and set it upon the fire for a fresh batch of potion. A blue one, this time. As empowering as the Bard’s heart.


	19. eyeballs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ive said a tony that i wouldnt use zenyatta's cult skin because it wouldn't fit, and i meant it! but also i love my tentacle man so. like. not out and out cultist!zenyatta, more like......bloodborne!zenyatta. 
> 
> fear the old blood.

In time, the ominous wind lead the Swordsman and the Monk back to the town they had once defended nigh a year ago. His features completely obscured, as the townsfolk would only call him and his pupil a monster if they saw true, the Monk reached into his robes and lay his hand upon the stone in his possession. 

It was perfectly round, and there were runes of Health, Destruction, and Despair carved into it, and all around it. The beads the Monk used were similar in design, but this stone was special. 

For as the Monk touched it, he felt the eyes within him open, wide, and the Iris flood his soul with untold knowledge. His bones shuddered and his blood boiled, and the pressure upon his mind was given tangible shape; a higher being seizing upon his brain and peering through his own eyes, pressing needily against the veil of what made the Monk sane, and what would turn him into nothingness. 

The Monk drew upon himself and his training and resisted; in time, the pressure lessened, and it was with this new insight that the Monk saw the unshackled truth of what had become of Eichenwalde. 

Those who were not soulless husks of themselves were riddled with doubt and suspicion. Those without their souls only existed, and only barely at that, by a thin, golden strand that was wound tight around their throats. Where those threads lead was to the nefarious Witch of the Wilds, of this the Monk had no doubt. 

Suspicions confirmed, the Monk released the stone. The Iris was slow to release him from its cloying embrace, and only once the Monk felt the eyes close was he able to find his voice once more. It trembled naught. 

“We were right to come here, my student,” said the Monk. “Much evil is afoot here.”

“As it always is,” said the Swordsman with a bow of his head. The carved snarl of the oni surveyed the almost empty streets. “Though I do sense some goodness here, as well.” 

“There is always light to be found, even in these darkest of times,” assured the Monk. “A protector was created here. I believe it now resides within the keep. However, a dark and malicious storm approaches us e’er closer. I feel that soon we shall have yet another long night ahead of us.”  

“Then, shall we go and give our regards to the Lord once more?” asked the Swordsman. 

“Yes, my student. Once more shall we stand as the guardians of this castle and these people.” The Monk looked upon the empty shell of a young girl, no older than thirteen, as she stared sightlessly upon the two of them. “We must correct the wrongs the Witch has wrought.”

And, though the Monk did not share this with his student, he wanted to gaze upon the Witch in her full splendor with the Iris opened wide, to consume the unfathomable powers she had stolen.


	20. monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw for implied brainwashing, implied abuse (neglect), and less explicit gore

 

“A stitch here...ah, ah, this must have been a  _giant_  of a man, hahaha--Witch, take a look at this!” 

The Sugared Skull, invited and within a new guise--a young farmhand, his skin bronzed from the sun and still warm from the tequila he’d had before she’d stolen him away--poked her head around the doorframe and into the Witch’s basement. It had been converted into a makeshift lab, electricity sparking from exposed coils mingling with the unholy sparks of magic pulsating through the dirt floor. 

Junkenstein, revived, was elbow deep in viscera and gore as he rooted about in a reconstruction of his fabled Monster. The skin was green and the body itself swollen to such a degree that the steel table creaked beneath its weight. The Witch watched the doctor work in silence, though she offered a coy, “very nice,” every now and then. 

She was powerful, practically shining with stolen magic. The valkyrie’s skull had bonded well to her body, the Sugared Skull observed. Perhaps a bit  _too_  powerful; she hadn’t been expecting the transfer to happen as seemlessly as it did. 

Oh, well. Thoughts for the future. 

As the meaty sounds of limbs being dragged from pillaged coffins drew upward, accompanied by the stink of old rot, the Sugared Skull drifted away with a whistle as she toured the rest of the cabin. It had been enchanted to be thrice as large inside as it appeared outside; not as grand as the chateau, per se, but still impressive nonetheless. 

In the sitting room, lit only by hundreds of candles, sat the Possessed. She was donned within the Raptora’s armor, the metal blackened from the process and the purple, rootlike veins embedded within it pulsating with magic. Most frightening were the wings twitching against her back, and the explosives that lay in the weapon the once proud knight held in her lap.

Surely she looked the part of a monster, but the Sugared Skull could only see a victim of the greatest cruelty.  _We will free you_ , she wanted to shout.  _Either with her death or your own, you will be free. I promise._

In the kitchen, rolling a die against the table, sat a young human girl. The Gamesmaster, so the Sugared Skull had heard of her. She looked far too thin and the Sugared Skull noticed a long cold bowl of soup beside her, as well as a crust of bread; as the body was still alive, it needed sustenance. Had the Witch provided food, only to leave the shell and consciousness to stare at it thoughtlessly? A body without its soul had no will of its own, especially if the Witch was at work. 

 _Foul woman_ , thought the Sugared Skull.  _Such thoughtless cruelty! She will reap what she sows_...

Soon enough, soon enough. The Sugared Skull was not heartless, so she took up the bowl and sat beside the Gamesmaster. Bit by bit she coaxed the girl into eating a bowl of soup, then fed her bits of bread and a glass of water. Though the human’s eyes were dull, listless, she could see the hint of a powerful mind behind those sad eyes, and it thanked her. 

The Sugared Skull was careful not to let her own true self show, as the shell’s loyalty was still to the Witch, but she could not help but part with a sincere smile. “She should take better care of her things,” said the Sugared Skull out loud. 

There came a great rumble, then a thunderous crash of artificial lightning. The Sugared Skull hurried to investigate and saw that the basement was full of blue and golden light, pouring into the Monster on the table, until with a great shudder the corpse moved. 

“It’s alive,” cheered Junkenstein, running bloodied fingers through his shockwhite hair. “ _It’s alive!_ My Monster lives and breathes once more! _”_

The Sugared Skull’s eyes drifted to the Witch, and thought,  _there is only one monster here._


	21. curse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> enter zarya, warrior princess. you think im joking but just imagine zarya with blonde hair in xenas outfit and you realize how fucking gay i am,

“Looks like we’re comin in just in time, don’t it,” observed the Gunslinger as he lead the way to Eichenwalde’s keep, spurs ringing with each measured step. The town was nearly abandoned; they’d either hightailed it out altogether, or mayhap they were in the keep itself once again. Weeks too early, perhaps? Or hours…

“Yes,” answered the statuesque woman who marched beside him. She dressed like an ancient warrior, the leather cured and sturdy and firm around her chest. The skirt itself were overlaid strips to allow movement, and the belt was tripped in fine fur; the woman was covered in scars and her body was built for war. She had a bicep as big as his head, the Gunslinger knew. 

She wore her long, blonde hair in a severe hightail, and minimal warpaint highlighted the strong cut of her jaw, the scars that carved stories of her victory for all to see. 

The Gunslinger had met the Champion on his way to the castle; once they’d compared letters from the Lord asking for aid, it hadn’t taken them long to become companions. The Champion tended to boast, but had the strength to back it up; she made bandit lords tremble with a glance, could catch arrows with her bare hands, and broken swords with a single blow from her own. 

 The Duchess Volskaya had indeed sent her finest warrior. No doubt, the strongest woman in the world. 

“Glad you’re on our side,” said the Gunslinger as they approached the gates, and were let in by a drowsy looking guard. “Last time I faced off against the Witch and her ilk, nearly died a time or two.” 

“Is that how you lost your arm, Gunsligner?”

“This–nah. Werewolf bite,” said the Gunslinger, flexing his cursed, artificial arm. Silvered, lit by perpetually burning wolfsbane. “Cut the damn thing off before the infection could spread.” 

The Champion was quiet at this, contemplating. “I see. You are a brave man.” 

“Ha, what good’s a hunter that’s as much a monster as the things he hunts? They say that it’s necessary sometimes, but I don’t believe that.” The Gunslinger waited until the keep’s massive doors opened. “Nah, I’ll stick to my bullets and my bolts, thank you kindly.”

“What you mistake for a monster could be one trapped within a curse,” said the Champion with surprising softness. 

“…Aye,” said the Gunslinger, not fully convinced, “S’pose it could be. Y’all hear that, or…”

“Gunslinger?” called an old, familiar voice. “That can’t be you I hear, can it?” 

From the kitchens came the Alchemist, two years older than he remembered, and wearier for it, but still the same cranky woman that had pumped him full of potions and darts. 

“Well if it ain’t the ol’ Alchemist!” The Gunslinger jogged forward and seized the elder in a hug, lifting her off her dainty feet with a spin. The old woman laughed and beat at his shoulder, and the Gunslinger set her down with a wince and a chuckle. “You came back, too?”

“She’s not the only one, oddity.” The wizened growl came from the Soldier, who stepped out from the shadows with a proud limp to his gait, his mask in place. “Good to see you healthy and whole, friend.” 

“Son of a bitch,” the Gunslinger whistled. “You old Soldiers don’t rest, do you?”

“Would that we could,” said the Alchemist dryly. “It seems some forces don’t like it when we put our weary bones to…” She caught sight of the Champion over his shoulder. “…Well, well, who is your companion?”

“I am the Champion of Volskaya,” said the warrior. “The Duchess sent me to aid you. I was unaware that there would be two more to our cause.” 

“Oh, not just two,” said the Soldier. “Follow.” 

They followed him into the great dining hall. There was no feast laid out, as the Lord did not have the staff to create a banquet, but the Gunslinger saw many more bodies than he expected. A Child and the Unmovable protector; a Bard, strumming a wistful sounding story to the Lord himself; and a Monk meditating with a Swordsman by a dark corner. A few of the townsfolk were around too, mostly by the Child and the Unmovable. 

“This town is cursed with war indeed,” said the Soldier gravely, but the Gunslinger could detect a faint hint of…perhaps, hope. “But we all shall work together to break it.”


	22. poison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and thus the start of a 10 chapter "get fucked, witch" arc

The Warbringer sat across from the Witch days before Hallow’s Eve, calm and composed. One arm was encased in enchanted metal, a great weapon that had been forged and worn by his old mentor before the Warbringer had killed him to complete the succession. His title was one of an empire; so long as there was War, there would always be one to herald it. 

His companion, the Jiangshi, explored the Witch’s hut, her button nose twitching as she searched for something to eat. She would find no sustenance here; the Witch held all the souls in her possession close to her at all times, and Junkenstein and the Monster were thoroughly off limits. 

“You wish to work with me, I hear,” said the Witch. Her eyes were fever bright, and her breathing was unsteady; the Warbringer could tell that she was full of unstable power, the energy stretching at the seems of her being. No doubt that was the reason there were so many Zomnics being created by the hour; Junkenstein was a genius, albeit a mad one, but even he could not be supplying all of the power behind his own forces. 

Perhaps helping the doctor provided an adequate outlet for the Witch. A marvelous adaptation; the Warbringer was impressed, but only just. It appeared that the Witch truly never learned from her mistakes. 

“This is correct.  _With_  you, not for.” The Warbringer nodded to the unmarked bottle of wine. “Shall I pour us refreshment?” 

“Oh no, dear, allow me.” The Witch uncorked the bottle with a flick of her finger, and carefully poured him a glass in a stone goblet, and then herself. “You know of my intentions, do you not? If you think to claim this Lord’s territory for your own...”

“I do not seek this war for my own profit. It is meaningless; money is as much a tool as a hammer and a nail.” The Warbringer did not touch his glass, and the Witch did not move for hers either. “Your forces will put the Lord and his men through hell itself. Most world changing, natural disasters tend to force the dominant species to evolve and survive; this is no different. I aim to grow stronger; I aim for the world of Man to grow stronger.”

“While I am  _flattered_  you would compare me to a force of nature,” said the Witch, smiling darkly, “I fail to see how your goals and mine align. You want to help mankind; I wish to rule it.” 

The Warbringer was startled by such a claim, though he did not show it. The Witch was known for cutting deals and using those however she could, but she’d never been rumored for megalomania. A disappointment, to be sure. He’d have rathered her selfish than sightless.

“And if that is to be Man’s fate, so be it,” the Warbringer allowed with a bow of his head. “I am not a savior, nor a hero. I am simply a herald of War. What results is not up to me.”

“Well, well. So you won’t help your fellow man after all?” 

She could not see the point, so the Warbringer allowed her to think she had won with a forced smile of his own. “Precisely.” 

“Then there may be use for you after all.” The Witch held up her glass for a toast, and he followed. “To new friends,” she said, and took a deep drink. The Warbringer took his drink next, instantly recognizing the sweet, fermented taste of his drink. 

He made a show of draining his glass, politely dabbing his lip with a napkin. The Witch’s lips curled. 

“Enjoy that?” At his silent nod, the Witch continued, “Death’s berries have such a fragrant sweetness to them that I’ve always enjoyed. Immortality expands your tastes, don’t they--ah. But I suppose the same cannot be said for you. I can extend help in that regard.”

“I suppose you could.” The Warbringer tilted his stone goblet. “Another glass, please?”

He watched with concealed delight at the Witch’s smug smile cracking in half. 

“One can build quite a healthy tolerance for  _Atropa Belladona_ , if they have the courage for it. I found it a necessary one after multiple attempts on my own life.” The Warbringer hummed. “Another, if you would.  _Friend_.” 

The Witch poured him another. 


	23. phobia

It was intolerable, really, for this to be a deep fear inside of him. 

The Viking was a hotblooded warrior and an inventor aside. He had battled dragons on the frosted peaks of mountains; he had toiled in the underground for years to craft a perfect, portable weapon to mount upon any ground he protected as an extra gun when he had no allies. 

He had killed many monsters. And yet, his greatest fear was that of the dead. 

A year ago he had been called to counter it; hordes of Zomnics, dead and yet not to kill. A Witch and her minions to defeat, an inferior Monster and that damnable Summoner who thought her dragon god could overpower him. Not to mention the Reaper, or the Dracula, or  _whatever_  it called itself, and Junkenstein. 

You’d think that’d teach a woman a lesson, but the Viking stared down at the letter from the Countess herself asking for his help to put the Witch down once and for all, and did not like how his hands shook.  _She will have more pawns than ever before_ , warned the Countess.  _We need your help._

The Countess had been cold, haughty, arrogant, and worst of all, skilled enough to warrant it all. And yet, here she was,  _begging_  for his help. 

The Viking wondered; could he endure it again? Could he endure another endless night fighting the dead, watching his companions fall only to force themselves back up and force themselves through. 

The Countess promised there would be help aplenty, but the Viking wasn’t sure if that was a blessing or a curse. 

Well. As if it were any sort of choice. 

The Viking tucked the letter into the folds of his cloak and began his long journey. He had faced his fears and regrets once before, and if it meant the end of it all for good, he would do so again. 

Besides. He would not let the Lord, his oldest friend, suffer once more.


	24. teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> yes hello can i offer you zarya/sombra in this trying time

The Sugared Skull entered the keep of the Lord with a skip in her step. Everything was falling into place, and she was meant to oversee the process on all angles; the Countess’s, the Witch’s, and yes, even the Lord’s. 

She walked the halls unseen, her magic powerful as she was without a skin--yet had one at the ready, always--and observed the warriors gathering for the ever encroaching war. A couple of the townsfolk were actually begging for weapons, and being denied; the Lord himself had reopened the ancient armor, fetching his armor and the great, mighty shield from the depths of his vaults. 

The Gunslinger, Alchemist, and Soldier were huddled over a table, busy making plans. The Swordsman and Bard were with the Child and the Unmovable, asking questions in between bites of their meals. 

The Monk stared blatantly at the Sugared Skull. He waved when she did, so he wasn’t all bad. He might actually make for good company, actually.

The Sugared Skull whipped around the corner and took on the guise of a barmaid from Volskaya, an oldie but a goodie. She’d only just finished filling the empty skin with magic when she felt a large, powerful hand grab onto the back of her neck and she was hauled back into the dark, aloft and off her feet. 

The Champion of Volskaya slammed her against the wall, pinning her there with a deep, angry scowl on her war marked face. The Sugared Skull squirmed, just a touch, then settled. 

“I have looked everywhere for you,” growled the Champion, her green eyes flickering to sharp blue for but a moment.

“I know, I know. Sorry.” The Sugared Skull shrugged, and let her truer self shine forth. “Forgive me?”

“Are you safe? Healthy?”

“Yes.”

The Champion leaned forward, and took a long inhale to detect a lie. The Sugared Skull rolled her eyes before she was set on her feet. 

“Then you are forgiven,” the Champion rumbled. “Will you not explain why you left?”

“For the same reason you came.” The Sugared Skull reached up--way,  _way_  up--and hugged the Champion around her thick neck. “The Witch had to be stopped, and I got message from an old friend. I had to help her.” 

“You drag trouble everywhere you wander,” the Champion huffed. “Why is that I can never catch you when you are in your own skin?” 

“Well, if I’d known you were already here I’d have changed into something more appropriate.” She flicked the Champion’s dainty nose. “To show where you left your teeth.”

The Champion bared them in a grin. A little thrill raced up her spine at the sight; the Champion was still so handsome, so beautiful. The distance had ached, surely, but the Sugared Skull was long lived and the Champion was not her first, nor her last lover. 

“The night of the attack will be Hallow’s Eve.” The Sugared Skull leaned against the Champion’s front, seeking, for a moment, the warm contact that the warrior always carried with her. “Will you be alright?”

“So long as I can see the scar I left you, then I will be.” The Champion pressed a kiss against the crown of her head. “Will you be fighting for us?”

“Yes, but on the other side of it. You’ll see what I mean when it’s time.” The Sugared Skull turned her head up, stretched, and stole a quick and chaste kiss. “You risk so much. The Gunslinger is a hunter, you know.”

“I know. But this is worth it...as are you.” 

“So romantic!” The Sugared Skull tapped the tip of her nose, her fangs showing from behind the disguise. “We will speak later. I must go, before anyone grows suspicious...”

“Be careful--” And the Champion drew closer still, embraced her tightly, and growled, “ _Olivia.”_

The Sugared Skull pulled herself toward the beacon stone she’d left by the Witch’s cottage, seared to the soul by a single name.


	25. slime

It did not have blood. 

The Monster bled, but it was not blood. It had blood, once. It had a family, once. Friends. A wife. A husband. Children, a dog. It had many things, and now it had none. It was a cobbled mess of experiences and memories, not entirely its own. 

It stared at the wound upon its palm, at the muck that oozed from the tear in green skin. Purple slime, instead of red. Viscous, with a pungent aroma. 

It remembered that once, this palm had belonged to the wood miller. He had gone to his lover, who had wrapped it quickly, neatly, pressing a kiss. The lover’s stubble had tickled the wood miller’s palm, and the men had shared a brief kiss; of thanks, of warmth. Just because they could. Because they wanted. 

It closed its hand and felt the slime squish and dribble between the spaces of its fingers.  _Need stitches,_  it thought, but the voice was of the wood miller, or perhaps his partner, echoing in memory. 

With great and heavy steps the Monster plodded up the stairs. The cabin was in massive disarray; scattered parchment and bottles and herbs littered the floor. The Witch was gone for the day, along with its Master. 

“Hello!” 

The Monster turned its head, then looked down. The Jiangshi stood beside him, her Companion fluttering on icy fae wings. She tracked slush and snow wherever she went; the Monster remembered snow. 

“Are you hurt?” The Jiangshi reached up and took its massive hand in both of her own, tugging it down to her level. The Monster allowed this, and opened its fist to show the tear. “Oooh, looks nasty. It’s okay. I still remember how to sew. Come, come, I will fix you.” 

 _Fix me? What for?_  The Monster silently obeyed. The Jiangshi fluttered about, rooting around in drawers for a needle and thread. Rats skittered free from their prisons, some missing limbs and others eyes. 

The Monster sat and the entire cabin shuddered at its weight. The Jiangshi went to its hand and worked with surprising delicacy. A new stitch to join the others keeping it together. And yet, it was unnecessary. It wasn’t like the Monster could die of bloodloss. 

“You smell like life and yet you don’t. You fascinate me,” said the Jiangshi, her smile curled to show her little fangs. “I thought you would be a combination of many things, but you smell of a soul all your own. Here, let me get you a towel, my friend.”

 _Friend?_  thought the Monster as the Jiangshi finished her stitching, and left for the kitchen.  _That sounds nice._


	26. demon

The Archer stood before wooden doors of the keep, the tie in his hair dragging in the cold wind. With shaking hands, he touched them, and he could feel the difference in the woods used to make up the doors. Twice, they had been under attack. There was the ancient wood, the wood only two years old, and now the wood barely a year old. The varnish was still fresh upon it. 

Soon it would be tested. The Archer wondered if he was alone in the defense this time; the town was empty, so he could find no rumor there. He pushed, gently, and the doors opened; to his shock, he could hear voices.  _Many_  voices, raised in cheer and chatter. 

Warmth enclosed him as the Archer stepped inside, and tingles raced up and down his spine. The Dragon inside of him raised its head and chuffed, stirred awake by the energy. 

No, realized the Archer. Stirred awake by…something else…

As the door shut behind him, some of the chatter died down. Two guards posted announced, “My Lord, the Archer has arrived!” 

The sounds of hurried footsteps. The Gunslinger was the first to round the bend, cigar trailing smoke from his mouth. 

“Hells bells, it’s you!”

“Still a loudmouth, I see,” said the Archer stiffly, but then the Soldier and Alchemist appeared as well. A crowd followed them shortly, a cacophony of voices and greetings and–

Ice speared through his stomach as he tasted a demonic aura on the back of his tongue. His bow was in his hand and an arrow drawn quickly as he leaped back. A figure dressed in black with the mask of an oni was the final body that joined the throng, and the stench of demonic influence was as thick as smoke. 

“Distance yourselves,” commanded the Archer. “The demon must be slain–”

“Hold your arrow, my brother,” said the demon, and the arrow fell from the Archer’s slack fingers. The Dragon roared its jubilation as it recognized what had awoken it so; and in the echoes, a tainted beast bellowed in answer, in reunion. The Dragons were just as much siblings as their vessels, after all. 

“It cannot be,” whispered the Archer, falling to his knees.

 The crowd parted as the demon approached, kneeling before him. The mask was removed, and his brother stared back at him through scarred and twisted flesh, the small nubs of horns at his temples, the red slit of his pupils glowing from the backdrop of ebony sclera and iris. 

“What have you become–what have I  _done to you?_ ” 

“You tried to kill me,” said the Swordsman simply. “Our so called family twisted us as young boys, coerced and tore you apart until you did what you thought was right.”

“But it wasn’t right,” argued the Archer, his shoulders quaking. 

“No,” agreed the Swordsman, “but we were only children, my brother. We were children warped and twisted. I survived; you survived. It has not been easy…for so long, I wanted revenge on you. But then I opened my eyes, my heart, and I realized that I still love you. You are my brother. How could I not?” 

The Swordsman reached out, and lay a hand on his brother’s shoulder. The Archer covered it with his own, trembling one. 

“I cannot give you redemption. That is something you must uncover for yourself,” said the Swordsman. “But I can give you forgiveness. I forgive you, brother. I forgive you, Hanzo.” 

“ _Genji_ …” 

The Archer threw aside his bow and embraced his younger brother, and wept. The Swordsman did the same, and his tears scalded through robe to flesh and beyond.

There would be more to do, the Archer thought foggily. Decades of pain could not be erased with mere words and a hug. But that could wait after the war against the Witch, after they had purged the woman from the world for good.

For now, the Archer–weary–could allow himself to finally rest among his friends, and his brother. It was enough.


	27. reaper

Once upon a time, he had been a soldier. 

_He still remembered the days of war. Side by side with a man he called his brother, his home. A woman watching over them both with eyes as sharp as a hawk, her potions healing their wounds, her heart mending their souls. A fine captain to guard them with his shield._

Once upon a time, he had been a man.

_And a young girl, her eyes bright with magic, wide and shaking as she stared at her blood covered hands. Runes carved into her flesh from palm to elbow, crimson dripping to stain the dirt red._

_“Why?” he had asked, clutching the fatal would in his stomach. “Angela…?”  
_

Once upon a time, he had been a father.

_“I won’t let you die. You cannot die. You cannot leave me!” The girl wept, falling to her knees and crawling to him. She laid slick hands upon his flesh, and he felt unholy magic flowing from the soil, the air, the blood, the soul.  
_

_“No–” he bit out, thrashing as fire coursed through him. “Angela, stop. Angela, you must not do this!”  
_

Once upon a time, he had been alive.

_“You can’t leave, you can’t leave,” muttered the girl, cradling him to her chest, rocking back and forth. “I won’t let you leave. I won’t let any of you leave!”  
_

_“Angela…” Death was cold as it gripped him. “It’s too late. Do not damn yourself…for me…let me go….let me go, Angela…”  
_

Once upon a time, he had been dead. 

_“No!” It was the desperate screech of a child lost in war, begging and pleading and raging. Magic ripped at him, tore him from Death’s claws too messily, dragging some of It inside of him as it tried to stitch him together. He thrashed in the girl’s grip, roaring._

_It was wrong. He was wrong. He was meant to die. But the girl could not let him, and so his body and soul twisted together, cursed, neverending._

Once upon a time, he had been good. 

_The girl fled with him from that bloodsoaked battlefield, leaving behind his home, the hawk eyed woman, the shield. Far into the woods did she run, and when they were far enough, she bound him to herself. A father. A servant. What did it matter?_

_“You need to feed,” muttered the girl. Her blood had turned black from the magics. “Go. Feast.”  
_

_And he did; at first it was the putrid trash no one would miss. The murderers. The rapists. The thieves and liars. But his hunger grew, and the darkness in him bled out the light, and soon he could see neither one for the other._

Once upon a time, he had been more than he was. The Reaper was dragged from his cold rest and stood before the Witch of the Wilds. At her left sat Junkenstein. At her right, a beautiful dragoness with fire for eyes, and smoke trailing from her lips. The Summoner. 

“We attack in two nights,” said the Witch. “Be ready.” 

“ _Yes_ ,” growled the Reaper. 

_Once upon a time, a man had come across a scared little girl in the woods. War had claimed her family, and he took her beneath his wing and lead her to safety and love._

_And yet, perhaps, it would have been kinder to simply leave her there._


	28. blood

Through the empty streets came the clatter of an immense and rich coach, pulled by four great horses. It was welcomed into the keep, for it brought the last of the heroes to defend the castle against one final strike against the Witch of the Wilds; the Countess, the Time Traveler, and the Sasquatch. The Viking had been picked up along the way. 

“So many,” whispered the Time Traveler, adjusting her goggles. “I thought we were gonna be done the only four for sure!” 

“Be thankful that we are not,” muttered the Countess. She passed her eyes over the crowd and stilled as she met the brim of a hat, familiar. “…Damn.” 

“What is it?” asked the Sasquatch. He squirmed slightly as dozens of strange and curious faces turned his way; yet no one called for torches, pitchforks, or any manner of weapon. 

“Just an…unintended complication.” The Countess pursed her lips. “One of the hunters is here.” 

“Hunters?” The Time Traveler squared her shoulders, drawing herself up. “They’re gonna have t’go through me if they want you, love!”

“And I, as well,” rumbled the Sasquatch. “Though I wager they’d come after me, anyway.” 

“Oh, enough of this,” grumbled the Viking, and he raised his voice in a bellow; “Hunter! If you have intentions of killing the Countess, I’ll meet you face to face!” 

The hunter, the Gunslinger, tipped his hat up. Though he scowled and chewed on his cigar, he did not make a move to the vampire. “We’re allies, ‘fore the night. Reckon I can keep my head turned away, so long as she doesn’t go on to kill the townsfolk.”

“There, settled,” said the Viking. “Now, out of my way. I’m starving!” 

The Sasquatch followed the stout warrior, rumbling about hunger himself, and that left the two of them alone–or, well, at least separate from the flock, as it were. The Countess was prepared to leave the Time Traveler to mingle, when she found her hand taken by the girl’s, and she was pulled off to an empty flight of stairs. 

“What–” The Countess allowed herself to be dragged forward. “What are you planning?”

“You ‘aven’t fed, have you?” accused the Time Traveler. “Haven’t seen you take a bite out of a rabbit or nothin’ since we left a week ago!” 

“I do not need to feed every day,” scolded the Countess with a huff. “I will be fine.” 

“We’re about to go to war, and you want to try it on an empty stomach?” 

“I will manage,” the Countess said dryly. 

The Time Traveler stopped once they came upon a landing, and turned. The only light was the blue of her clockwork heart. “Drink from me.” 

The Countess would have swayed on her feet had she been a fledgling. “I…beg your pardon?”

“Feed. From. Me.” 

“Why…” It came out as a rasp, as the Countess was more than tempted than she would have thought, and the power of invitation and consent was night addicting. “You know that would–bind–”

“I know,” said the Time Traveler. “I don’t care. I…maybe I want it. Don’t…don’t you ever get lonely?” 

 _Yes._  “I don’t see how it matters.” 

“I don’t age,” confessed the Time Traveler with a whisper. “I can’t. I might be anchored, I might need food, but I’m still a paradox, I still don’t  _really_  exist, here, in this time. I’m outside of it. I…I can be there for you. F-forever.” 

“And…” The Countess was drawn closer, until her words and breath stirred the fringe that was always caught beneath the band of the girl’s goggles. “And you’d want that? I would feel you, know your every movement–you could never hide from my sight.” 

Hands framed her waist, gently. The light dimmed only because the Time Traveler had pressed herself against the Countess, leaving them in almost-darkness. “Yes. I want it. I want…I want you. I want you healthy and strong–I want you to live through this war.” 

Gently, the Countess coaxed away the collar of the human’s jacket. Her cold lips grazed the throbbing pulse of life, and yet, she did not bite. Instead she moved forward, and–almost shyly–pressed her mouth against the Time Traveler’s in a kiss. The Time Traveler held her close by the hair, whispered, “ _Amélie,_ ” against her lips, and kissed her harder.

With a growl, the Countess parted and sank her teeth, deep, into the vein. Blood–thick and hot and electric with impossible magic–flooded her mouth and she swallowed it down with a moan, clutching the Time Traveler against her with inhuman strength. She was careful not to crush, of course, but the Time Traveler did not struggle; she sighed, sweetly, and cradled her head against her neck.

The Countess fed her fill, stopping only when the Time Traveler grew limp in her arms; and in a flash of blue found the girl just as healthy as before, the damage undone. Yet the effect remained; her entire body hummed in pleasure at their closeness, her instincts purring with pride at having ‘caught’ her ‘prey’. 

“Lena,” murmured the Countess, “I don’t think I can let you go, now.” 

“Good,” said the Time Traveler, drawing her into another kiss, “then  _don’t_.”  


	29. scream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ITS THE FINAL COUNTDOWN

It was not even five minutes past sunset when the first Zomnic hovered into town. The Countess watched through her scope as it was joined by two, then four, then six more, until a hefty horde was marching. Zombardiers, blue and twitching with unspent magic, were scattered among the hazey glow of yellow. 

Upon the highest ramparts sat the Countess, the Archer, and the Alchemist. As their weapons relied mostly on long range, the height would most surely give them the advantage. 

“Gods,” whispered the Archer in disgusted awe. “There are so many...” 

“And this is just the first wave,” the Alchemist noted grimly. She had more than enough potions to last the night, and darts aside, so she hoped. “The Witch truly intends for us to die this time.”

“And she will fail, like she has twice before.” The Countess scowled. “She hides still, clever girl.” The only pull she could feel was towards the Time Traveler, who sat among the first to be on the front lines along with the Swordsman. 

“That bodes ill for us.” The Archer stepped up upon the stone, and drew an arrow. Channeling the Dragon just a touch, he set the arrow loose into the heart of the horde and pierced a Zombardier through the skull; the magic pulsed and rippled outward, casting a light red haze among their enemies. The silhouette of a woman was revealed, sprinting through the crowd. 

“That is our ally,” the Countess warned as she grabbed the Archer’s wrist. “Do not strike her. The Sasquatch and the Traveler already know this.” And below she could see her lover and the great beast sharing their knowledge quickly, lest the Sugared Skull become caught in the crossfire. 

“She’s laying traps,” said the Archer.

“No,” the Alchemist corrected, looking through her own scope. “They’re...stones?” She looked to the Countess. “Beacons. Teleportation magic?” 

“Correct.” The Countess nodded. The horde of Zomnics paused at the bottom of the hilled road leading to the bridge and the keep. The Heroes shifted uneasily, ready for battle. 

The Countess felt a keen pull, one that was far weaker than what she shared with the Time Traveler. Instantly her gaze was drawn to the skies, where the Witch hovered upon her broom. A creation in black and purple armor was at her side, great wings flapping to keep her aloft. 

“This is your one and only chance,” called down the Witch among the silence, “to surrender. Your deaths will be made peaceful, as I am not so heartless as to deny you that. Resist me, however, and you will find yourselves swallowed by the inevitable. What say you?” 

It was the Champion who answered, a wordless war cry as she raised her sword high in the air. The Sasquatch roared alongside her, beating his fists against his chest; the Soldier and the Gunslinger cocked their guns, and the Viking finished his turret with a final, resounding hammer blow. 

The scream bled to all the protectors; the fury from the Alchemist took shape of a name; “ _Fareeha!”_ and the Archer fired a scattering shot to the bulk of the horde with a snarl. 

The Lord, now the Crusader, hollered; “ _Come at us, then, you she-devil!_ ” 

“How foolish,” said the Witch. With a limp gesture of her hand, the horde advanced and were met. The Time Traveler and the Swordsman leapt into the thick, dancing around metal and rotting bones with the grace of fish, leaving behind piles of rubble and fading blue light. What got passed them had to deal with the rapidfire weapon of the Unmovable, one of her shields laid out for cover. 

The Sasquatch and the Champion met the stragglers head on, fists and blade knocking them aside. The Soldier and Gunslinger provided the cover-fire; the Viking, armor. Darting between and playing his warsong was the Bard, and the Monk gave his aiding beads of Health when necessary.

“ _You bitch!”_  The Alchemist bayed. “ _How dare you--my **daughter** \--Fareeha!_”

The old woman fired dart after dart at the Witch, but they missed their mark; alarming, as the Alchemist was (to the Countess’s chagrin) known for never missing a killshot.  _Daughter?!_  

“Don’t you like my creation?” called down the Witch, lifting a hand to pet over the proud helm of her Possessed. “Shall I have her fight for your approval even now?”

The knight turned her weapon to the rampart. “Run!” shouted the Archer as burst of fire exploded from the muzzle, and he nimbly vaulted out of its path. The Countess cursed, slung her rifle to her back, and gathered up the raging Alchemist in her arms and flung herself over the edge. She grappled at the last minute, felt the flames of fire lick the back of her coat as their previous perch was consumed in hellish flame; the two women landed in a pile and the Crusader moved to cover them, his towering frame and shield protecting them from harm. 

“No more games, my Lord,” said the Witch. “I shall not toy with you. There’s little point in it.” 

The Witch’s allies rose on the rooftops of the town; the Warbringer and his fist, the Jiangshi and her frost. The Gamesmaster, silent, her machine’s weaponry warming up, the Sugared Skull posing smugly against the sunset sky. The Mad Doctor Junkenstein and his Monster. 

And, coalescing in front of the new wave of Zomnics...the Reaper, flames spouting from his jack o’ lantern head with every cackle he gave. 

Thus, Hallow’s Eve began.


	30. undead

The fighting began in earnest, bullets and darts and arrows flying through the air. 

“Hold the doors!” commanded the Crusader. “No matter what, we cannot let the scourge into the castle!” 

“We  _know_ ,” grated the Soldier, shooting off his rockets. “I will handle the Reaper!”

“Don’t be a dumbass,” snapped the Gunslinger, fanning the hammer of his gun. “You know you can’t one on one that sonovabitch. I’ll help you!” 

Elsewhere in the mayhem, the Bard called out, frantically, to the Gamesmaster. “Hana, please! It’s me! Remember yourself!  _Hana, please!_ ” 

But the Gamesmaster did not do more than coax her behemoth weapon down from the roof, the cobblestones cratering beneath the mechanical creation, guns whining as they began to fire. A stone with a rune of shielding dropped between the Bard and the Gamesmaster, followed by the Unmovable’s frantic, motherly voice; “Come, Bard! There is nothing we can do for her yet! We must kill the Witch to break her spell!” 

A mystical shield was summoned by the Gamesmaster to intercept the coverfire the Unmovable provided as she escorted the Bard back to the others. 

The Possessed fired rocket after rocket, each blast colliding against the Crusader’s great shield, though it began to show cracks. The Alchemist dropped a flask upon the ground, and a great billow of smoke bloomed; the Crusader quickly encouraged the two women behind him to move and he lowered his shield only long enough to run, hammer swinging while the Alchemist trailed behind him, firing healing darts into the memorized spaces of his armor. 

The Countess, meanwhile, had taken the form of a raven and returned to her true shape, hanging upsidedown from a wooden terrace; she took aim and fired, piercing the vital join in the Possessed’s winged armor. To her shock, the knight did not fall, merely quivered in midair; that was when she noticed even more shielding magic.  _Familiar_  magic. 

“The Summoner!” she called. “The Summoner is here, and she has set up a shielding rune! We must destroy it!” 

“I’m on it!” replied the Time Traveler. She turned to the Swordsman as she dodged a falling Zombardier. “Can you handle things here, love?” 

“Go, my friend,” said the Swordsman, felling three Zomnics with his shining blades. “I shall continue to draw their ire. You must take out the generator.” 

The Time Traveler gave a grave nod and blinked, bursts of blue light taking her to the hidden nooks and crannies, the alleys, searching for the shielding well. 

The Monk cast a bead of Despair upon the Jiangshi as she leapt forward, arms extended forward. With a flash of fang she had erected a wall of glittering ice between them, the bead of Despair falling useless to the ground. The Warbringer sprung from atop the wall, and when he slammed his great fist to the ground it created a shockwave that knocked the Monk off of his feet, stunning him. 

Before he could deliver the killing blow, the Bard came in fast, and with a Shout of magic, propelled the Warbringer away. 

“Thank you, friend,” said the Monk, accepting the Bard’s hand. 

“We need you on your feet,” said the Bard breathlessly. 

The Witch then called to their attention once more, with a snap of magic; “ ** _Arise, my Gravefiller! I call upon you!_** ” 

From the castle’s graveyard came the sound of heaving dirt and churning stone; the Bard and the Monk turned as one and saw a construct settling into place behind them, red eye blazing, as it transformed into an enormous gun. With a whir, thousands of stone chips were shot forward; a bubble of energy surrounded them both as the Champion raced to their aid. 

“You’re covered! Go!” she commanded. “Hurry! It will not hold for long!” 

“What  _is_  that?!” called the Sasquatch, knocking a Zombardier through a wall. “Is it alive?!” 

“No,” said the Archer, drawing his bow, “It is undead, like all of the Witch’s creations.” 

The arrow he loosed was enchanted, and it split into dozens, piercing into the softness of the Gravefiller’s constructed body; one grazed the magical core that was thoughtlessly exposed and it wailed in agony, and was thusly silenced by a well aimed shot by the Countess as she swung through the air, avoiding the rockets fired by the Possessed. 

Bombs fell from the sky as Junkenstein finally let loose, the Monster charging along after. The heroes were forced to give up their hardwon ground. 

The Time Traveler cursed, and then spotted a stone glowing purple. Then, once she had reached it, she saw another…and another, in a trail. The Sugared Skull’s work! Smirking, the Time Traveler followed the trail up into a dark, hollowed out house–and stopped, frozen, at what awaited her. 

There was the shielding well, of course. It pulsed with heat and arcane energy, billowing with cloying smoke.

And there was the Summoner, sat upon a smoldering chair of her own construction, watching the battle raging. She made no move to acknowledge the Time Traveler, except to tilt her head to the side. 

“It is chaos,” said the Summoner with disdain. “When she called to me again, I expected better from her.”

The Time Traveler did not speak, but the grip on her pistols tightened. “Aren’t you…going to–” 

“No. I will not commit myself to this…disgusting display,” sneered the Summoner. “Besides, I am here for something, and if I helped then I would not collect on what I came for.” She raised a hand, and dismissed the well. “Tell the Shadow that she is not as clever as she thinks. That the Witch could not see the traitor for what she was speaks to her humanity.” 

After a moment, the Summoner waved her fingers. “That will be all. Shoo.” 

“Uh, right. Cheers, I s’pose,” said the Time Traveler, thoroughly confused, and then she leapt out from the window and blinked among the horde once more, dozens falling from her sneak attack. 

The Reaper fought off the Soldier and the Gunslinger, stunned by flashbangs and battered by bullets, snarling viciously as he was outplayed time and time again. Junkenstein attacked the door with the round device strapped to his back thrice, weakining the wood. The Jiangshi tried to freeze the stragglers, but the bubbles of energy the Champion produced with swings of her sword kept them safe from her magics. The Swordsman danced about the Warbringer, goading him on.

The Warbringer slung a torso-sized chunk of stone at the Swordsman, catching him off guard and sending him sprawling into the ditch and water. The Time Traveler joined the fray then, assaulting the Warbringer with her pistols and blinking out of his reach every time. 

“Ha! Missed me!” she taunted as he grabbed for her and she slid out of his grasp easily, quickly, like a fish darts through the water. Her pistols would not fell this man; she had to wait for someone else to take the shot, perhaps–the Time Traveler blinked around again, eyes raised toward the Countess perched upon the castle’s balconies–someone with a steady hand, someone she trusted. 

But it was not to be. As she lunged forward to join the others, blinking, she felt enchanted metal  _catch her_. 

And then agony as her harness was torn from her. The last vestiges of the Witch’s magic left her anchor, and her clockwork heart thudded to a halt. The Time Traveler reached out a hand, screaming; “ _Winston! Am–”_ before the fraying edges of Time came to enclose on her. 

As the Time Traveler flickered away, the night was still for only a heartbeat. Then, with a shriek, the Countess plunged from the balcony and ran for the Warbringer as he crumbled the rest of the harness in the palm of his gauntlet. Blinded by her fury, the Countess could not react in time to dodge the backhand he sent her way, and she went flying through the air, crashing through a stone wall and lying, unconscious, among the rubble. 

And above it all, smiling, flew the Witch. 


	31. full moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> curtain calls, folks.

“I’ve got her!” the Alchemist growled, quickly rushing from the door to the pile of rubble where the Countess lay. “Cover me!” 

The Warbringer moved to intercept her but grunted in shock as the furious might of the Sasquatch bowled him over, primal, animal noises escaping from a fang filled maw. Great fists rose and fell, slamming upon the human man without thought, without reason; the Sasquatch was beyond any higher thought than quenching the rage that pounded in his blood. 

Even when the Warbringer had fallen limp beneath him, the Sasquatch did not stop. In fact his fury only grew and he threw the ragdoll body as far as he could, blood slick against his knuckles. 

The Alchemist reached the Countess’s side and quickly broke open a potion; the woman’s neck was broken, though it was crunching back into place before the Alchemist’s very eyes. Vampiric regeneration, she guessed, and poured the healing mixture into the Countess’s open mouth, coaxed her to swallow. 

“Lena,” she rasped, delirious. “Where is…she? Can’t…feel…no…” 

“Hush, child,” whispered the Alchemist. “Leave the rest to us. We will win this, for you. For the Traveler. I must leave, but you will be safe here.” 

The Countess only moaned, head lolling and eyes closed tight with great pain. A woman quickly shimmered into view, bright pink hair vibrant even in the darkness. The Alchemist jumped, reached for her sleeping dart, but the woman quickly waved her hands. 

“No, no! I’m a friend!” And the Alchemist recognized the silhouette as the one the Countess had pointed out once the Archer had revealed her position. “It’s okay, it’s almost time. We just have to get the Witch to unleash her full power–I promise, then it will end.” 

“Very well.” After arranging the Countess to rest and heal faster, the two of them quickly leapt back into the fray. 

“So you’ve betrayed me, Shadow!” called the Witch as soon as she saw the Alchemist and Sugared Skull once again. “You’ll regret choosing the wrong side in just a moment.” 

“Ha! Big talk coming from a floaty coward!” snapped the Sugared Skull, shaking her fist up toward the Witch as she ran to the Champion’s side. “Come on, then! Show us what you got!”

“All in due  _time_ , my friend,” the Witch cackled. 

With another round of gunfire and a flash, the Reaper was vanquished once more; the Soldier was covered in wounds, and the Gunslinger favored his right leg greatly. An arrow pierced Junkenstein’s heart, toppling him; the Monster fell to a hail of bullets from the Unmovable, glowing golden as she repelled its attempt to hook her away from her post. 

Overcome with Despair, and out of ice, the Jiangshi fell to the Swordsman’s thrown knives. The Gamesmaster fell back, her machine sparking and crackling but not undone–not yet. The Alchemist quickly shot her sleeping dart into the exposed throat of the Possessed, and the body tumbled from the air and fell with a crack against the stone, causing her to flinch as if she had been struck herself. 

“So, you think you’ve won?” The Witch threw back her head, laughed, and gestured with her arm. “You  _fools! My servants never die!_ ” 

Predictably, the fallen warriors in service to the witch–the Warbringer, the Jiangshi, the Monster, Junkenstein–were revived in brillant flashes of golden light. The Witch’s golden wings were spread wide, but they were tattered, flaring with a light that flickered uncontrollably. 

Night blanketed the sky, and from the cover of clouds came the fat, full moon. The Champion gazed upon it, and in a panic, turned to the Sugared Skull beneath her arm. 

“Olivia,” she whispered tightly. 

“It’s okay,” soothed the Sugared Skull as she pulled aside the collar of her coat, showing a long scarred mark at the base of her throat. “I got the right skin on. I’ll keep you in line. We need you.” 

The Champion stepped away from the Sugared Skull, threw back her head, and  _howled_. Her transformation came in a great rush, snow white fur covering the enormous form of a humanoid wolf, clad in the tatters of the Champion’s armor. Bright green eyes gazed at the dumbstricken foes, and before anyone could truly react, the wolf had seized upon the Monster’s head and wrenched it clear from its body. 

“No,” whispered the Witch, stunned. “No, no, no,  _this cannot be…_ ” 

“Do not falter!” encouraged the Bard. “Let’s break them  _down!”_ Healing magic pulsed from him in a great blanketing wave, stirring even the Swordsman from his brief defeat. 

To the Warbringer, the Swordsman leapt; he unsheathed the sword strapped to his back and bellowed;  _ **“The demon becomes me!”**_  The Demon, which truly was a Dragon of the Shimada clan, warped, rose from his being and infused his blade with his energy. Though the Warbringer lashed out with his powerful fist once more, it was cleaved in two with one swipe of the sacred blade. Blood poured from the grievous wound, and the Warbringer called out in great pain, stumbling, clutching at the remains of his arm. 

Sensing that this was a time to push, the Unmovable removed old drum from her back and placed it firmly against the ground. A phantom beat upon it in rhythm, and empowering magic flowed from it. “Throw everything you have at them, my friends!” 

“Gladly!” roared the Crusader. “Ana! Now!” He slammed down his hammer and knocked the revived Jiangshi off of her feet. The Alchemist fired the concentrated potion into the back of his neck, and the Lord’s body was consumed in bright, blue light. A war cry like no other left him, a single man defending his home, his life, his people; he charged with no thought to his own safety, hammer swinging wildly. The Jiangshi flew into the air with a tormented cry, landing with a crumple at the Monster’s side. 

“The enemy is within my sights,” called the Soldier as he centered his fire on the Zombardiers in the distance, as well as the cackling visage of Junkenstein. The Gunslinger focused on his targets–as many of the Zomnics as his eye could see–and took them all down with a single shot apiece. 

“Like fish in a barrel,” he muttered. 

The Reaper, however, was not one to be denied now that he had been risen  _once again_. As he gathered the shadows close to him, hellfire sparking in the unseen depths, the Monk did not think twice. 

“ _Embrace oblivion_ ,” breathed the Monk as he reached into his robe, grabbing the stone of the Iris as it wrenched open and spilled out from him, bathing his enemies in powerful healing rays while the Reaper turned into a whirlwind of gunfire and death. The Monk’s robes were destroyed in the process, revealing his twisted limbs, unnatural pallor of skin, and the six eyes that glowed with his magic. 

The Reaper stumbled back, and the Archer was there to greet him. 

“Let the dragon consume you all,” said the Archer, and he released the arrow he held notched in his bow. The arrow struck true, flying through the Reaper’s dead heart, and from it burst two beautiful dragons. The spirits passed harmlessly through the heroes, but laid waste to the Archer’s enemies. 

The Champion seized upon the moment and bolted on all fours to the Gamesmaster; she leapt upon the machine and wrenched it open with a tremendous howl; the Sugared Skull was quick to scoop the girl from the seat of her machine and run with the limp, unthinking shell as the machine crumbled to rubble. 

And then it was simply the Witch, alone save for the unconscious Possessed. 

“You think–you think that’s the end?” she asked, trembling. The heroes gathered together, weary and bruised and at their limit. “You think…that this is the  _end of me?_  No…No! Never!  _I will not lose to you a third time!_ ” Her wings flared again, the light overpowering, and then she was flying without need of her broom, magic a tangible tornado of power around her.  

The Sugared Skull grinned. Opened her palm. And then, in a flash of purple light, the Witch’s heart was ripped from her body and landed with a wet  _splat_  against her open palm. 

Her power was instantly extinguished. The Witch fell from the sky. As she landed, her bones shattered, and as she writhed and choked on the sudden hollowness in her chest, the blood filling her lungs, she felt  _all_  of her magics start to bleed from her as well. 

“Wh…” the Witch wheezed. “Wh…a…t?”

“I guess it’s lucky that you didn’t think about looking too closely at the inside of that skull before you drank it, did you?” The Sugared Skull stared down at the throbbing heart in her hand, a rune of teleportation etched in bonemeal against the source of magic. “The Countess and I researched for a couple decades to figure out how to get it right. You don’t get to pick and choose when you’re absorbing magic; some of mine was in there too, just enough to pull this off.”

The Witch, broken, writhed on the ground and coughed blood. She could barely move. Barely think. 

She heard footsteps. Armored. 

“Justice,” said the Raptora, her voice strong and full of  _fury_ , “rains from above.” 

The Witch was bathed in fire from the rockets, seared to the bone, and yet she knew she would not die. Not so easily. No, this was purely to torture her and she screamed, as all her victims had once upon a time, begging and pleading. It seemed to last for hours, and yet it was only minutes, and when the Raptora was done she stepped over the Witch’s whimpering body and strode toward her family. 

“Fareeha,” said the Alchemist upon seeing her daughter, whole and healed and healthy, “how can this  _be?_ ” 

“I don’t really know myself,” the Raptora admitted. “It’s…hazy. I remember dying. I remember being under her thrall…but for some reason, I remember a different path. I saw a girl, she ran up to me–warned me of the battle. I survived…or fell unconscious…and woke up here, full of memories from someone else. It feels like I have been dreaming…but I can’t tell which is which.”

“Lena,” said the Sasquatch, his voice catching as the Alchemist embraced her daughter. “Lena must have plucked you–a version of you, at least–from an alternate timeline, and merged you into this one.” 

“Is such a thing possible?” asked the Monk as the Swordsman helped him to redress, draping the shredded remains of his robes over his body and face once more. 

“She is neither Here, nor There,” said the Sasquatch. “The limits of her powers are only based on how self aware she remains.” 

“Fascinating,” murmured the Monk. 

“Hana’s not waking up,” the Bard interrupted weakly. He held the Gamesmaster in his arms, and he shook. “We have to get her book. We have to burn it.” 

A weighty thud followed, and the heroes turned to see the Summoner stepping free from a portal she had created. The Witch’s book of Debts lay between the group and the Summoner. 

“Take it,” said the dragoness as she turned to gather the Witch in her arms. “I am taking her in exchange.” 

“What? No!” The Sugared Skull squeezed the magic heart in her hand until it strained frantically against her fingers. “She needs to pay for what she’s done!” 

“And she shall. I am taking her into the Hells, and I am letting her pay for her sins.” 

The Witch struggled weakly, tears flowing from her ruined eyes. “No,” she pleaded weakly. “Please. No. I just wanted…to keep…anyone from…leaving me again…”

“And that, my darling,” cooed the Summoner, “is yet another lie to soothe yourself. As a child, you wanted that. As you grew, though, you came to enjoy it. The lying, the cheating games, the torture. You loved the power and the privilege. You cannot escape your judgement.” 

The Witch wailed. “Someone–anyone! Please help–help me–help me, please,  _help me_ , I don’t want to die! I don’t want to–”

And then she quieted as she saw that she would have no sympathizers among the heroes gathered. She dropped her head against the Summoner’s shoulder and wept, miserably; not tears of remorse, but tears of frustration, of fear. The Summoner bowed her head, and turned. She entered the portal of fire, and in the next instant, the portal vanished in a plume of smoke.

–

By the first of November, the book of Debts was burned to the ground and the Witch’s heart along with it. The Reaper and Junkenstein were freed, along with countless other souls. 

The Alchemist and the Soldier toasted their old friend and bowed their heads to mourn. It was better, they knew, for the man they loved had been lost long ago, and they had only been waiting for his ghost to be put to rest. 

The Warbringer had his wounds tended to, and was turned to his country’s authorities to stand trial. He had left amicably; “You all rose to meet the fires most splendidly. I have high hopes for the future of Men,” was all he said. 

The Jiangshi had not been turned loose; after all, the spirit had only come to find food and the Witch had taken advantage of that. The Raptora had taken her under–metaphorical–wing, and while her appetites were problematic, the Jiangshi was good company, and she had quite the tender heart. 

(So tender, in fact, that she had asked that the Monster to be buried, and the grave marked, for at least one soul would mourn it as a fallen friend.)

The Monk, Swordsman, and Archer had only stayed to rest for a few days before setting out; the Archer needed more time to accept himself and his sins, and to feel as if he had truly earned his brother’s forgiveness. The Swordsman and Monk were eager to help him find peace.

The Unmovable and the Child, and all the townsfolk, returned to rebuild once more. Now, though, there was a hopeful spirit inhabiting them. Perhaps it was because the Witch was dead and gone; perhaps it was simply because they adored their new Protector. It was hard to say for certain. 

The Lord said farewell to the Viking as he set back for his mountains, thanking his old friend again for the help; the Viking merely groused that he had felt quite invisible the entire time, to which the Lord laughed. 

The Gunslinger turned away from the call of the hunter; after all, he had fought alongside a vampire  _and_  a werewolf. It was better to simple become a wanderer and help out when he could, now that he had a higher understanding of the creatures he fought–cursed as they were. 

The Champion and Sugared Skull parted and returned to the land of Volskaya; “After all this running around? I’m taking a vacation,” said the Sugared Skull, carried like a bride in her mate’s arms. “And Alexsandra and I have so much to catch up on.” 

Everyone had politely turned their heads and coughed at the deep growl that rumbled from the Champion at that.

The Bard and Gamesmaster had decided to stay with the Lord. Though her soul had been returned, the Gamesmaster could not shake all of the scars that came with her treatment at the Witch’s hands, and she knew that a safe place to sleep was more important than her traveling. The Bard was more than happy to stay with her, and it was not odd to see the two of them pressed side by side, the Bard crooning a lullaby as they dozed in front of the hearth’s fire. 

The Sasquatch remained in the Lord’s keep to learn magics properly, and to practice his sciences in a safe place. His first order of business was to recreate the harness of the Time Traveler, carving a summoning sigil overlaid with an anchoring rune. 

“I got the idea from the Summoner’s portal, actually,” he admitted, handing it to the quiet Countess. “Here. Let it soak in the sunlight, and go to where you feel her strongest. She’ll be drawn to it, of course, but you’ve got to do your share of hunting.” 

The Countess took the gift with hands steadier than how she felt. It was strange; at times she would feel empty, hollow, nothing. And then, for brief moments, she would  _feel_  the Time Traveler; her blood and pulse calling across miles and miles. 

“Yes,” said the Countess. “It will be my finest hunt yet.  _Adeiu_ , Winston.” 

“ _Adieu_ , Amélie,” said the Sasquatch, watching her walk away into dawn’s light. 

In time, the Lord’s keep was empty of his guests, save for a select few, and his halls were filled with joy and song. The curse was over. The night was done. And so he breathed in deep, and relaxed upon his throne. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL THAT WAS A RUSH!! 
> 
> notes about the future, since this will NEVER get a sequel:
> 
> sombra and zarya have sweet sweet skelewolf babies. it's really cute and blessed.   
> lucio and hana become the best court guards you ever fuckin' heard about, and hana proposed about 6 years later. their parents were invited, and reinhardt cried like a big fucking baby.   
> fareeha became general of the lord's army, with mei as their secret, cold, deadly little weapon. they hold hands a lot and also kiss.   
> amelie found lena again. it only took a year, and they currently live as those weird immortal vodka aunts nobody invites but they somehow appear anyway.   
> winston invented peanut butter. he was so fucking stoked.   
> ana and jack still toast gabriel every year.   
> hanzo got therapy and is doing really well. meanwhile zenyatta found this sick place called yharnam. genji dabbed.


End file.
